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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684881">You're a Mean One, Mr. Kneef</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper'>Professional_Creeper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holiday Bingo 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Good Fight (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Bryan Kneef being a terrible boss, Casual Sex, Christmas Eve, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Femdom, Hate Sex, Holidays, Meeting the Parents, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mistletoe, New Year's Eve, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Snark, Spanking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:35:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>54,312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27684881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Bryan Kneef has invented an emergency to make all the paralegals in the office stay and work. You're not going to take his bullshit. But you may have met your match with Bryan's shameless, uh... "conflict resolution techniques." </p><p>You are so calling HR.</p><p>Written for @thatesqcrush’s Holiday Bingo on Tumblr</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian Kneef/Reader, Bryan Kneef/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holiday Bingo 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Scrooge/Grinch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mild dubcon throughout, as 1) he is her boss 2) they both blackmail each other a smidge and 3) it is established he'll stop if she says no but otherwise there's no discussion of boundaries, he just kind of pushes them.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Festive lights were strung around the offices of STR Laurie, but their merry glow added no holiday cheer to the hearts of all of those forced to come into work on Christmas Eve. Everyone was <em>supposed</em> to have the day off, or at least get a half-day. However, the sun was setting over the Chicago skyline, and at least a dozen paralegals were still frantically toiling over the enormous workload dumped on them last minute by one Bryan Kneef.</p><p>It didn’t seem like a particularly important case or a particularly critical motion, but according to Mr. Kneef, it was worthy of an all-hands-on-deck situation that would make as many employees as possible miss dinner with their families.</p><p>In fact, as you glared over the top of your monitor at his office—the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed within—you were pretty sure he wasn’t even working on this “important” case. He was probably fucking napping. This was all some sadistic Scrooge-like tactic to make everyone miserable just because <em>he</em> didn’t have anywhere to be tonight.</p><p>As the angled light streaming in through the window turned dusky orange with no end to the work in sight, you’d had enough. You stood up, marched across the office, and barged through Mr. Kneef’s door without knocking, certain you were going to catch him with his eyes closed on the couch.</p><p>Instead, you caught him behind his desk, furiously masturbating to porn.</p><p>He stopped, but unlike a decent human being who would yelp in surprise and frantically sputter apologies for being caught dick-in-hand, he wasn’t startled by your entrance and made no particular hurry to cover himself. He clicked a button on the keyboard, and the rhythmic sounds of moaning stopped.</p><p>His eyebrows raised at you impatiently as if you’d interrupted him on a phone call.</p><p>You slammed the door behind you—the rest of the office didn’t need to hear this.</p><p>“What the fuck, Mr. Kneef? This case is so important we have to work through fucking Christmas, and you’re in here <em>jerking off?</em>”</p><p>“Your point?”</p><p>“Fuck you!”</p><p>His lips pushed up into an excessive frown that made his beard bristle, and he nodded, seemingly impressed with your audacity.</p><p>“Fine. Hop on.” He patted his lap, smirking, legs spread wide in his leather chair. His semi-hard cock was still sitting naked and pink outside his deep navy dress pants.</p><p>Now he’d crossed the line into making your skin crawl.</p><p>“OK, I’m calling HR.”</p><p>He scoffed and tucked himself back into his pants. “<em>You</em> said fuck me.”</p><p>Unbelievable.</p><p>This was the most shocking interaction of your entire two years working for Bryan Kneef. Not because he was usually such a gentleman—every few weeks he’d bring a new peroxide blonde on an office tour so their youthful eyes could widen at how rich and powerful he was, and so everyone who worked there could see the bombshells he was bedding—but he kept business and pleasure separate. Never hit on anyone from the firm.</p><p>But you supposed his sleazy request was more about shock. He had no interest in fucking you, but you barged into his office and had the balls to give him a dressing down without blushing. The firm’s top litigator, Bryan was a bulldog in the courtroom, possessing an intensity that made grown men tremble when they faced him. He never backed down from a challenge, and you challenged him—of course he kept his dick out until you blinked. </p><p>God, it was big, too. Almost unrealistically so. He could have had a career in porn. </p><p>You closed your eyes and tried to compose yourself, ignoring the flush of heat surging between your legs. Ew—body, what? Don’t be gross.</p><p>“So. You have a problem with the work I’ve assigned you?” He set his elbow on the table and rested his beard in his hand. His voice was as casually mocking as ever, as if this whole situation was perfectly normal.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s bullshit. We’d all like to go home if this motion isn’t so vitally pressing it can’t wait until Monday.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“Don’t you have anywhere to be?”</p><p>There was a twitch in his face at that. He tried to remain as callous and inscrutable as ever, but the question revealed a tension that wasn’t obvious before. Beside his computer was a bottle of Scotch and an almost-empty glass. Next to that was a small rectangular box, neatly wrapped with shiny silver paper and a gold bow. He glanced down at it, and he looked, for a brief instant, sad.</p><p>He wasn’t so intimidating when his cold eyes turned pitiful like that. Almost like he was human.</p><p>In contrast to his distasteful personality, his eyes were a beautiful, delicate green even in the dim light. It was enough to make you admit how handsome the lawyer was—the dark beard, the flecks of silver streaking through his flawlessly-styled hair. If he turned out to have actual human feelings beneath the swagger, you might even like him.</p><p>You sat down in the small chair opposite him at his desk. His eyes had already retaken their cold, mocking air, but you tried appealing to the hypothetical inner-human in him anyway. “Do you have any Christmas traditions? A family you want to see? You must at least remember being a kid—how special the holidays are at that age. Dana has two kids waiting at home, and this is the only time of year Paul gets to see his nephews.”</p><p>“You think I give a shit about sob stories? They have a job to do. If they don’t like it, they can quit.”</p><p>“Fine”—Screw playing nice—“How about this: I can call HR about the porn on your work computer.”</p><p>He glowered back at you, appraising the sincerity of your threat. “The whole HR department is eating turkey right now. So, you can file a complaint on Monday. Maybe I get a warning? Won’t help you tonight. Sorry, sweetheart. Finish the motion, you can go home.” His piercing eyes stared at you, waiting. “Will that be all?”</p><p>Instead of retreating in an indignant huff as he full-well expected you to do, you shoved aside a handful of papers and the Scotch bottle to clear a spot on his desk, and sat on it so you were looking down on him, thoroughly invading his personal space. “What do you want? Why are you doing this? Don’t pretend it isn’t out of spite. Let me guess… you didn’t want to spend another Christmas alone getting sad-drunk on expensive whisky, so you decided to do this instead of pick up a hooker?”</p><p>He glared harshly but otherwise didn’t react.</p><p>“How about this? I’ll take one for the team and go drinking with you—just tell everyone else they can go home, Ebenezer.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes contemptuously and explained in no uncertain terms that that was not going to happen. But maybe it was your flirtatious body language, or the stubborn way you refused to back down, or that you weren’t intimidated by him like every other subordinate around here. Maybe he was just lonely. But you were irritating in a way he liked. And just desperate enough to do him a favor.</p><p>“If we left together, we would not be going out drinking,” he growled.</p><p>You rightly mistook it for an invitation to bed—because he deliberately intoned it as such to rile you up, so when you spat, “Fuck you!” he could feign innocent victimhood.</p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “I do have somewhere to be tonight—a family dinner. If you are serious about wanting to get me out of here, that’s where we’d go.” Of course, if you’d jumped at the offer to fuck him, he would have accepted that, too.</p><p>Now you were just confused. “You want… to take me to meet your parents? Why…?”</p><p>He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, already kicking himself for what he was about to tell you. But fuck it. You would have to find out if you were going to help, and he could use you and your massive balls to solve his little dilemma. Ovaries? Yeah. Your big brass ovaries.</p><p>“My parents are expecting me to show up with my long-term girlfriend. They have been... annoyingly eager to meet her tonight, and she just fucking dumped me.”</p><p>“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Being dumped sucked. Not that you’d ever take it out on a dozen coworkers, but assholes grieve differently. “How long were you together?”</p><p>“Three months.”</p><p>You blinked. “Oh my god, that is <em>not</em> a long-term relationship. Jesus, what standard are you going by? One-night stands?”</p><p>He bristled at the question, and you had a distinct impression that—yeah—the comparison was one-night stands.</p><p>“Irrelevant. I don’t want to spend the entire night fielding questions about what happened, sitting through my dad’s relationship advice, and dodging pitying glances.”</p><p>“So you invented a work emergency. Classy. Never thought I’d see the great Bryan Kneef, lady killer, on his knees over someone he dated for <em>three months.</em></p><p>“I am not broken up about it,” he snapped. “I just don’t want to deal with the bullshit from my family. So, you want to get out of here? Pretend to be my date for a few hours. You don’t have a problem lying, do you? We can break up after New Year’s. Deal?”</p><p>“You’ll let everyone else go home?”</p><p>He protested and made a counter-offer, but after much bargaining and negotiation, he finally gave in and agreed to your terms.</p><p>And that was how you saved Christmas and became the unsung hero of the entire office. None of your coworkers would know the sacrifice you made for them, the awkward dinner you had to endure, or all of the illuminating secrets you would learn that night about the biggest asshole at the firm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Fake Relationship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bryan has somehow talked you into pretending to be his recently-ex girlfriend for Christmas dinner. It's not weird or anything.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bluish LED headlights of Bryan Kneef’s BMW blinded other drivers as they cut through the dark on the drive to his parents’ suburban house. You ascertained from the hands-free call he was making the family hadn’t started dinner yet. Christmas was close to the winter solstice, so it wasn’t as late as the sky suggested, although you’d heard a hungry child screaming impatiently about having to wait for Uncle Bry.</p><p><em>“Uncle Bry,”</em> you teased as the call ended.</p><p>He chuckled. “That would be my brother’s kid, Finn. My brother’s name is Timothy. The CEO of LogicFinance. You will say you’ve ‘heard so much about them.’ Let’s review.”</p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p>Sitting next to Bryan while his attention wasn’t on you, you lost yourself noticing things. The clean smell of his cologne. How sexy he looked—in a rich douchey way—in his tailored suit and expensive car. His long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. That beard that made you want to scream, <em> “Daddy!”</em></p><p>You could almost forget he was the asshole who held every paralegal at STR Laurie hostage with busywork unless you pretended to be the woman who dumped him. </p><p>Until he started barking at you to memorize facts about his life.</p><p>“First, what do I have to know about this woman I’m supposed to be?”</p><p>He stared straight ahead at the road. “Her name is Sydney. So you’re Syd from now on.”</p><p>“Oh joy. Being called your ex’s name all night won’t be weird or anything.”</p><p>“You were the one who wanted to get out of work.”</p><p>“Whatever. I bet you already forgot my real name, anyway.”</p><p>He didn’t contradict you. The engine roared to life as he changed lanes before signaling and cut off the SUV he’d been tailgating for the last mile.</p><p>Your arms crossed over your chest. “How much did you tell your family about <em>Sydney?</em> I hope you didn’t send them any pictures.”</p><p>“Not much, and obviously not. I’m not stupid.”</p><p>“Just pathetic.”</p><p>He scowled. Before he could think of a searing response to take back control of the conversation, you asked another question that knocked him off balance.</p><p>“What made this one so different? We’ve been working together for what, a year? And I’ve never seen you upset over a breakup.”</p><p>“The sex was fantastic,” he answered too loudly.</p><p>“Uh-<em>huh</em>.”</p><p>“Oh yeah. I’ve never had a woman who could keep up with me—”</p><p>“Because you finish too quickly?”</p><p>“Cute. Keep it up.” He stepped on the gas again and your stomach lurched as he pulled off another aggressive passing maneuver in the right lane. “No one walks away from my bed unsatisfied. You could find out. A little reward for helping me out tonight?”</p><p>“Not in a million years,” you clipped, shutting him down, even though your wild, lonely, horny side that noticed his beard and fingers was beating at the inside of your skull. “You are going to keep it decent and chaste. Ground rules: holding hands. Kisses on the cheek. Moderate cuddling as the situation calls for it. That should be plenty to sell that we’re involved.”</p><p>“You haven’t seen me around women I’m involved with,” he smirked with a suggestive glint in the side of his eye.</p><p>“And I’m sure your parents haven’t seen you with a partner who isn’t just some bimbo you’re screwing, either. Cop a feel, and I end the charade right there.”</p><p>That comment, which was more insightful than you knew, silenced him. His suggestive side-glance returned forward to focus on the road. That look was back on his face again—the look when he ran out of swaggering bullshit to spew. Sadness. Genuine human sadness.</p><p>“She wasn’t clingy,” he said, voice a soft rumble. “Didn’t expect me to be her fucking boyfriend—she was the one who told <em>me</em> no strings.”</p><p>“You loved her because she was distant?”</p><p>“No. I don’t know. She did nice things, too—like ask how my day was, and bring me coffee. She remembered the way I like it.”</p><p>“That’s just basic human kindness, Bryan.” You sighed. “That’s actually… really sad.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“I mean it. You call women clingy for wanting to be close to you, and now you’re so starved for connection you think remembering your coffee order is a huge deal. Your <em>secretary</em> knows your coffee order. Hell, I know your damned coffee order you’ve sent me out for it enough times, even though—as I often remind you—that’s not my job. I’m sorry. Really. But maybe this is a lesson? That you actually have a heart and might want to try opening it sometime?”</p><p>“How the fuck is that the lesson? I open my heart, I get hurt. From now on, I’m only dating broads who disgust me.” His eyes lingered on you for a dangerously long time until you got the point and gave an annoyed grunt. His eyes returned to the road, corners crinkled in satisfaction.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Dinner was already starting when Bryan’s BMW finally pulled into the driveway of a large house on a private cul-de-sac. The porch was glowing with tasteful white lights and a wreath on the door. Silhouettes were moving behind the decorative glass set into the front door, waiting for you to get out of the car. As soon as you approached, the door flew open and you were hit with the smell of roast turkey.</p><p>“Bry-Bry! We were worried you wouldn’t make it!” His silver-haired mother threw her arms around Bryan’s neck while he grumbled with reluctant affection, hugging her back.</p><p>A rich oaken voice of the man who must have been his father said, “And this must be the famous Sydney. We thought we’d never get to meet you.” He shook your hand warmly.</p><p>Both of them were wearing hideous red and green Christmas sweaters straight out of a Hallmark movie.</p><p>“I can’t believe this one hasn’t driven you away!” Bryan’s mom teased, pinching his pink cheek as she did so. “We’re so happy you put up with our little monster.” She hugged you.</p><p>“Come, come on in. Let me take your coat. We were just starting dinner—you’re right on time.” His dad helped you shrug your winter coat off and hung it up in the entryway closet for you.</p><p>This was… bizarre. How the hell did people this friendly churn out a Bryan?</p><p>More shocking still was when you felt warm, long fingers twine between yours, and you nearly tore your hand away before remembering you had a “boyfriend” tonight. Bryan smiled at you sweetly, eyes soft and affectionate.</p><p>Yep. You’d fallen into some kind of Bizarro World.</p><p>Martha, his mother, led you both through the spacious house toward the dining room. “What do you think of our humble home?” she asked, pausing in the living room. “I keep thinking I should move that chair to the other side of the fireplace. What do you think? Would it flow better?”</p><p>“Uh, I’m not really—”</p><p>“Mom! We’re hungry,” Bryan snapped.</p><p>“Oh, come on, honey, let me pick her brain! It’s not every day we have an interior designer in here.”</p><p>“Bryan told you I’m an interior designer?” Your mouth smiled pleasantly at Bryan while your eyes stabbed daggers into his stupid handsome face.</p><p>“Obviously I forgot I mentioned it,” he smiled back.</p><p>You batted your eyes. Now the daggers were <em>on fire.</em></p><p>“Well, what do you think? Chair on the left, or the right?”</p><p>“Well,” you said, “the symmetry with the fireplace is… balanced with the rich tones in the leather”—Martha nodded along attentively—“You know, I’ve been working all day, maybe we can talk shop later?”</p><p>“Oh! Of course! I’m sorry—Bryan’s mean old mom ambushing you the minute you walk in the door!” She flexed her hand into vampire-claws and playfully attacked your shoulder. “Aw, are the stuffy old adults embarrassing you, peanut?”</p><p>Bryan’s cheeks turned the brightest pink you had ever seen them. And this was a man who didn’t blush when telling a roomful of attorneys to go fuck themselves. You let out the first genuine laugh you’d made in his presence. You squeezed his hand.</p><p>“Honey-bear, I <em>love</em> your parents!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The table was crowded with Kneef siblings, cousins, and their children and spouses. Finn, you guessed, was the youngest boy. And that would make the silver fox next to him Timothy. His older brother had the same bluntness as Bryan, but none of the cruelty. In fact, his entire family was so… normal.</p><p>Bryan’s hard edges were hardly softened in their presence, but unlike in the office where his cranky moods inspired fear, here they were met with boos and hisses and his cousin throwing a bread roll at him. The youngest kids mimicked this exciting behavior, and soon it was raining whole-wheat on Bryan Kneef.</p><p>You smiled and patted his hand and called him “dear” and made sure your mouth was full of turkey the moment anyone asked you about yourself.</p><p>Over the evening, you learned that Mrs. Martha Kneef put herself through nursing school after having her first child to support the family while her husband piddled around with his low-paying hobby in computers. By the time Bryan was born, his father was programming for a growing company, working his way up the ranks—back in the days when one could <em>do that.</em> By the time Bryan was ten, dad was the Chief Information Officer of one of the largest corporations in the country.</p><p>And so Bryan, the youngest, grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, handed all the things his parents had worked hard for in the hopes that he would have a better life.</p><p>“All the child-rearing books at the time said encouragement was important,” said Martha, who was a little drunk on red wine at this point. She let out an exasperated groan. “This is what happens when you encourage too much. We created a monster. <em>Didn’t we?</em>” Her voice went higher as she pinched Bryan’s cheek again.</p><p>“Martha and I are so happy to see him finally settling down with someone.”</p><p>“Yeah, how’d you manage to find a girl who’ll put up with you?” Tim teased, punching Bryan’s arm.</p><p>Bryan stared back. Locked eyes with his brother. He took a deep breath. “How’d <em>you</em> manage to—”</p><p>Bryan then asked something too obscene to be repeated, which set the entire table screaming, and parents’ hands clamping over children’s ears (though not before an adorable curly-haired niece asked, “mommy, what’s a prolapsed rectum?”).</p><p>You should have been offended, or embarrassed to be attached to the guy wrecking Christmas without even needing to be drunk. But oddly, as hot as your cheeks were, you found yourself laughing. You were dating the most interesting guy at the table. He was so overwhelmingly charismatic—not necessarily in a <em>positive</em> way, but in a way that made him the center of attention in any room he walked into. And he was charming enough for people to keep wanting him around, even when he said things that... were probably going to scar those children for life. Not to mention the adults.</p><p>Reaching over, you cupped the opposite side of his cheek and forced him to turn his head to you. “You’re so <em>bad</em>, Bry. How <em>do</em> I put up with you?” You began affectionately scratching his beard like it was something you’d done to him a hundred times. “He’s just so cute, I can’t resist. Settle down now, baby.”</p><p>His mom gave a loud, <em>“Aww”</em> and Bryan side-eyed his brother, who snorted.</p><p>You were getting into it, mussing up his perfect beard in a way that was sure to annoy him later—but it wasn’t annoying him that was on your mind. It was more the feeling of that coarse but soft hair under your fingertips, the shape of his jawline… the way he was staring back at you, eyelids drooping…</p><p>“It’s really the beard I’m dating—if he ever shaves, we’re breaking up,” you joked, suddenly needing to crush the romantic mood. It worked. His family laughed, and Bryan scowled, catching your wrist to make you stop.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan wanted to leave right after dinner, but his mother wheedled him to stay.</p><p>“We’ve still got your bedroom set up if you want to sleep here. Think of it—we could have Christmas morning together just like when you and Timmy were babies!”</p><p>“Ma! I couldn’t impose on Syd. She… has a cat.”</p><p>Great. <em>More</em> backstory to remember. You surreptitiously elbowed him in the side.</p><p>Bryan got his dominating instincts from somewhere, though. The big ask to stay the night was a tactic to make him give in to the smaller ask of staying for hot cocoa and holiday movies.</p><p>Bryan had yet to recover from your crack about breaking up with him and forgot to play the part of the affectionate boyfriend. While her husband was explaining the intricacies of a particular wireless security device to whichever cousins would listen, Martha casually sidled up and whispered, “You don’t have to be shy about PDA in front of us old people. We’ve seen everything.”</p><p>“Oh! Uh...” Your mouth gaped, unsure how the fuck to respond to that.</p><p>Bryan overheard it and rolled his eyes with a groan. <em>“Ma!” </em></p><p>He looked so grumpy and annoyed, something about it made you kiss him on the cheek. Just to put to rest his mother’s suspicions! That must have been it.</p><p>Then Bryan was all fire again, his eyes glittering above a wicked smirk. He grabbed your waist and pulled you roughly against his arousingly solid body, covering your neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Oh god, hot. He was definitely only doing this to make his mom uncomfortable, and if you knew Bryan, he wouldn’t stop until she regretted meddling or he was fucking you on the stack of presents under the tree. So why was your skin too hot? Why did it prickle everywhere his hand wandered? Palming your curves, sliding down to your hips, lowering over the swell of—</p><p>You leaned close until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Watch your hands, or HR is hearing all about this,” you warned, then pulled away smiling.</p><p>Bryan smiled back. “Of course, babycakes.”</p><p>“You lovebirds! Keep it PG.”</p><p>He warned you in the car that no one would buy him keeping things chaste, didn’t he? Well, you weren’t going to be the one to blow your cover.</p><p>When you filed into the living room where the kids were already watching <em>A Christmas Story</em>, there was only one spot left on the couch, and an empty armchair. Bryan flopped down on the recliner, and you sat on his lap. His chest vibrated as he gave an encouraging growl, cocking an eyebrow at you.</p><p>“You didn’t expect me to sit alone, did you, honey-bear?” you cooed.</p><p>His hand moved to support your hip, cradling you close to him. The other hand covered yours, which was resting on your knee. It was just a performance, but god, his hands were so big and warm, and the gesture so remarkably soft. You let yourself recline back against his chest, and turned your head to inspect his profile—the greying at his temple, a strong, square brow that shaded such lively green eyes.</p><p>A fire danced in the fireplace, stockings hung up neatly above it. A tree in the opposite corner filled the room with a piny balsam scent. The whole scene felt so domestic. Bryan’s beard scratched the side of your face, the soft cashmere of the sweater he’d thrown on over his dress shirt making him a comfortable cuddle partner. Suddenly you could imagine perfectly well why someone might put up with him.</p><p>“So, Sydney, how did you meet Bryan?” his father asked. A few other prying relatives leaned forward, and you began to sweat.</p><p>“Oh… I’m sure Bryan’s already told this story,” you deflected, glancing at him for assistance. Bryan frowned.</p><p>“It was through a case.” His evasive answer only made everyone more curious.</p><p>“What kind of case?”</p><p>“A divorce case.”</p><p>A bark of laughter leaped from your throat before you could hold it in, and you had to quickly disguise it as the kind of nostalgic laugh you get from an inside joke. “It’s true”—you stroked Bryan’s beard—“I think he only slept with me as part of the victory, you know? Took my ex’s money, took his wife. You know our Bryan,” you giggled. You would bet money that was exactly how it happened, too. “It’s a major rebound for me. But it’s been working out. Bryan has this whole other side to him that people don’t see.”</p><p>He looked at you. The clarity of his green eyes caught you off guard, and you felt a burning heat creeping up the side of your neck toward your ears.</p><p>“Well, we’re so happy to meet you!”</p><p>“You dog, Bry.”</p><p>“Want to see baby pictures?”</p><p>The last voice was Martha’s.</p><p><em>“No.”</em> Bryan said. “She <em>doesn’t.</em>”</p><p>Of your asshole boss? Why yes. <em>Yes, you did.</em></p><p>“He used to be such a sweet little peanut.” His mother always seemed eager to stir trouble for her brat of a son. “Just wait until you see how cute he was in diapers.”</p><p>“No!” Bryan groaned, but couldn’t stop you from following Martha to the family photo albums.</p><p>He had no power here.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Mistletoe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Smut</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bryan wished he were drunk.</p><p>He reclined in a leather armchair, a warm weight in his lap. He stared intently and with disinterest at the embroidery on the edge of a red Christmas stocking hung above the fireplace in his parents’ living room while his tiny nieces and nephews giggled at holiday movies.</p><p>If he had been drunk, he would at least have an excuse for his behavior tonight.</p><p>No, not for making a dozen paralegal nobodies miss Christmas, leveraging his authority to coerce you into doing a personal favor, or introducing NC-17 language to a family dinner. Those were all par for the course for the most ruthless litigator at STR Laurie.</p><p>It was the particular favor he had coerced you into—asking you to pose as the MILF he’d been banging when she dumped him via text on Christmas Eve.</p><p>Just so he wouldn’t have to explain why Sydney wasn’t with him. </p><p>Just so he wouldn’t be alone for the long drive.</p><p>Fucking brilliant.</p><p>Now his most obstinate, irritating, antagonistic employee knew about Sydney, knew how attached he’d gotten, had <em>met his mother</em>, and seen photos of him getting a bubble bath in the sink. (He loved his mom, but sometimes he wondered about murder.) Making you do such a humiliating favor seemed like a good way to finally control you. But his upper hand was quickly reversed.</p><p>You were right. The whole thing was pathetic.</p><p>Still, you were playing along better than he could have expected.</p><p>The strangest part was, you fit in with his family so much better than Sydney would have. She was hot, but honestly, dumb as a brick, and as difficult as Bryan himself. He had a better time with you. The way you gently teased him, commiserating with his family over what a pain in the ass he could be. The way you smiled so naturally… he saw how things <em>could </em>have been with Syd. With someone who called out his bullshit, but cared about him anyway.</p><p>It was a shame you were just pretending.</p><p>
  <em>Try opening your heart sometime.</em>
</p><p>Fuck that.</p><p>He didn’t need to open up more. He needed to get back to the Bryan Kneef he used to be before some bitch fucked with his heart. He needed to get Syd out of his fucking mind and replace her with someone else. Anyone else.</p><p>He needed to fuck someone.</p><p>And you…</p><p>His attention turned to the weight in his lap.</p><p>You were <em>there.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When did the pretend little gestures start getting to you? Start feeling enough like real affection that there was a lonely ache in your stomach?</p><p>You fucking hated Bryan Kneef.</p><p>But there you were, your fingers tangled in his beard when no one was even watching.</p><p>You’d been sitting on Bryan’s lap for what felt like hours—you could probably figure out how many based on the number of Christmas movies that had played and how many of the children had gone off to bed in various guestrooms.</p><p>Now the fire in the hearth was burning low, and only the adults remained hanging around in the living room.</p><p>His hands were wrapped around your waist, and you had gotten so comfortable, you were practically nodding off to sleep against his chest. Bryan was getting more comfortable, too. You idly stroked his beard, and he didn’t disguise the way he nuzzled into your hand.</p><p>The private whispers you shared started as touchy warnings not to screw up your “Sydney” act and counter-threats to expose him if he crossed a line. But that invisible line kept moving, and the whispers became more like the sweet nothings between lovers they were meant to resemble.</p><p>He even started stroking your hair. <em>Bryan Kneef</em>, gently running his fingers over your scalp. It was a Christmas miracle.</p><p>You might have drifted off in his arms, except for one major distraction—the bulge pressing against your ass.</p><p>“What the hell is that?” you asked, close to his ear.</p><p>“My dick.”</p><p>“Yeah. I know.”</p><p>“Stupid question, then.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“Want to?”</p><p>You accidentally let out a heady sigh instead of an offended gasp, and his hand moved a little higher, slipping under your knit sweater, grazing over your belly. You meant to tell him to fuck off. Really. You should have told him to cut it out. But the problem was, you didn’t want him to.</p><p>“My offer’s still on the table,” he murmured. “Since you’ve been such a good girl tonight. You deserve a reward.”</p><p>Being called a good girl did something to you, even though it was—or maybe because it was—somewhat demeaning. Your skin prickled. You swallowed the dryness in your throat. Your skin felt too hot… much too hot, and his thick cock was still trapped firmly between his hips and your ass. His offered reward.</p><p>“Y-yeah, I deserve a medal of honor.”</p><p>For what, again? For helping out your coworkers? They were already home with their families—you didn’t have to stay this long.</p><p>Maybe continuing the charade was just more fun than sitting in your apartment eating Chinese takeout. You accused Bryan of being lonely, but the truth was, you were the one who had nowhere to be tonight. Everyone you cared about was half a country away. And your horny, irrational side wanted to feel that cock without so much clothing in the way. Wanted to feel exactly how a selfish asshole like Bryan would ravage you with it.</p><p>He would devour you like the big bad wolf…</p><p>“That wasn’t a no,” he observed, his beard tickling your ear.</p><p>“Shut up!” you hissed back, loud enough to draw attention.</p><p>He chuckled, and you felt the vibrations of his chest at your back. “Yes, kitten.”</p><p>To his credit, Bryan didn’t try anything further. His hands behaved themselves, chastely stroking your hair, and eventually his erection returned to its pre-arousal size. You <em>had</em> been on his lap for a long time, your ass grinding against his groin whenever you shifted. It was a natural, physical reaction… That was all.</p><p>The fact that it felt so good you were soaking through your panties was just natural biology, as well.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, fuck, fuck.</em>
</p><p>Bryan Kneef was the worst boss you ever had. He had no respect for his subordinates (or for anybody—you recalled the deposition in which he’d told a name partner of Reddick, Boseman &amp; Lockhart to “call her own ass”). The fact that he was handsome just made you hate him more.</p><p>But god, his lap was warm. The smell of his cologne, and the steady rhythm of his breath…</p><p>You got to see a human side to him tonight. The way he acted with people he couldn’t treat like shit. A private side no one who knew him professionally—and you doubted any of the fifty-two other women he hooked up with per year—ever got to see. You were peeking behind the curtain of his life, and it made Bryan squirm. It was kind of cute. And your wild, horny side was clawing at the inside of your brain to give in to all the lewd promises he kept whispering.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck, fuck, FUCK!</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Martha yawned and patted her husband’s knee. “Well, us old folks are going to bed. Feel free to stay as late as you like, just turn the TV off when you go. No one’s in your bedroom if you do decide to stay over,” she added. “I’m making waffles in the morning.”</p><p>You swiveled your head around at the empty couches and realized it was just you, Bryan, and his parents left in the living room. Everyone else had gone home or gone up to bed. Bryan had been so cranky about wanting to leave right after dinner, but after you settled onto his lap, neither of you had found a reason to move.</p><p>Bryan stood and dumped you unceremoniously off his lap—you barely stuck the landing. He stretched.</p><p>“Nah, we’d better head out, too. Thanks for dinner, ma.” He kissed her cheek and hugged her and his dad goodbye. “Get your things, Syd,” he snapped.</p><p>Sounded like girlfriend-duty was over. Good. You could stop pretending to like him.</p><p>
  <em>Good. </em>
</p><p>“Be nice,” Martha chided, batting him on the arm. “Go help her find her coat; she doesn’t know the way around.”</p><p>Bryan put his hand on the small of your back and led you through an archway to the entrance hall.</p><p>His father cackled as you passed through it. “Look up!”</p><p>Mistletoe.</p><p>Bryan glanced up at the bundle of mistletoe without moving his head, so it looked like he was rolling his eyes. Then he looked at you and quirked a brow. You let out an awkward laugh, which he took to mean kissing was not part of the deal.</p><p>“It’s depraved that you want to make your children kiss,” he said dryly. “You do this to Tim and Steve, too?”</p><p>“We did, and it was adorable.”</p><p>“It’s tradition! Kiss. <em>Kiss!</em>”</p><p>“We are not going to kiss for you like trained monkeys,” said Bryan.</p><p>His parents passed under the arch and pecked each other’s lips.</p><p>“I love you, dear,” said his mom to his dad.</p><p>“Love you, too,” said his dad to his mom.</p><p>“No,” said Bryan.</p><p>“’ Night, peanut.” Martha pinched his cheek, and she and her husband took their perfectly hideous matching holiday sweaters upstairs.</p><p>“There,” Bryan sighed as his parents’ bedroom door clicked shut. “That wraps it up. Good work tonight.” Genuine praise from Mr. Kneef was rare, and sent a strange flush of heat between your legs. He turned toward the closet to fetch your coat, but you caught his wrist. He turned back to you.</p><p>“It <em>is</em> tradition…”</p><p>“Is it now?” His eyes narrowed, and a confident smirk turned the corners of his lips. He stepped closer, dangerously into your space, pushing you back against the corridor wall. “We wouldn’t want to defy tradition...”</p><p>Fuck, fuck—what were you doing?</p><p>His scent was overpowering and masculine, his presence overwhelming your senses, making him seem so much taller than he was as he shadowed you from the overhead light. You grabbed the front of his cashmere sweater and pulled. His lips crashed into yours, as hungry and fierce as you dreamed they’d be. There was no slow mounting of intensity—the moment his mouth was on yours it was fighting for dominance, wet and hot, his tongue forcing your lips open, not giving you a second to catch your breath. He tasted like cocoa and peppermint. A low growl rumbled from his throat, and you felt it in yours, his tongue was buried so deeply down it. You wrapped your arms behind his neck, tangling your fingers in his salt-and-pepper hair, drawing his weight down on you, letting him trap you against the wall. Someone was making a pathetic high-pitched whimper, and you realized it was you, desperately clawing at his sweater to grab more of him, rocking your hips forward until he reciprocated and his erection pushed against the aching heat between your legs.</p><p>When he finally pulled away, you were panting, lips drenched and throbbing from his aggressive technique. His hand was unabashedly cupping your ass, rolling the fat of it in his palm.</p><p>Oh, fuck.</p><p>No. No, no, no. He’s an asshole. A shallow jerk, and you hate him. You were not supposed to give him the satisfaction of seducing you.</p><p>He brought a hand to your face, holding it firm to keep you looking at him. His green eyes were dark with lust and energetic with desire. He lowered his face to yours and licked the saliva off your mouth. You shuddered, hips twitching forward into his cock.</p><p>Then again, it wasn’t like this meant you had <em>feelings</em> for him. He certainly didn’t have any for you. This was about sex. About <em>your</em> satisfaction. What was so wrong about fucking your boss?</p><p>The same dominating, shameless personality that made him a nightmare to work for would be right up your alley in bed. You wanted those big hands all over you, holding you down. That filthy mouth degrading you. You wanted him to call you kitten and sweetheart while he had his way with you.</p><p>His big hand was still holding your face, his lips still breathing your air as they hovered over yours.</p><p>That was it. The floodgates were open, and there was no closing them again. The wild, wanton part of you won out and took control. There would be no more rational decisions tonight.</p><p>“Can I have my reward now… Mr. Kneef?”</p><p>“Yeah?” he breathed against your lips, still pinning you. “You want the medal of honor?”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“Since you asked nicely.” He grabbed your hand and dragged you up the master staircase, down a hallway, and pushed you into a bedroom.</p><p>As soon as the door was closed behind you, his demeanor shifted slightly. His strong hands were pawing at your ass, roving under your clothing, but he pulled his head back when you tried to kiss him. “You sure you want to do this? To be clear, this is not part of our arrangement—I don’t want to hear from HR later that I forced you to fuck me.”</p><p>“I plan to leave this part out of the complaint I’m filing.”</p><p>“Good to know you’re still filing it.” He pinched one of your nipples through your bra to punctuate the thought. You tried not to melt in his hands.</p><p>“Maybe that depends on your performance,” you purred, letting a slow, wicked smile spread over your lips. “You’d better fuck me like your job depends on it, Mr. Kneef.”</p><p>“Treacherous little bitch,” he growled. “I <em>like</em> this side of you. You just tell daddy exactly how you want it...” His teeth grazed your ear. A flight of goosebumps broke out over the back of your neck.</p><p>“Oh, fuck… I want that nasty fucking attitude of yours. You never hold back, never have any respect for anyone—I bet you like giving it hard, don’t you?” You pulled his hips toward you and snapped yours against them.</p><p>“Is that what you want? You like it rough?” His fingers tangled in your hair and pulled your head back, exposing your neck. His lips were hot and his beard scratchy as he sucked a mark onto the soft skin of your throat while you moaned.</p><p>“Yeah. I want you to use me. Think you can do that?” you challenged, only a slight hitch to your breath betraying what his mouth was making you feel.</p><p>Despite the soft domesticity of your performed cuddling earlier, you could only imagine Bryan one way. And soft wasn’t it. One tolerable night didn’t mean you <em>liked</em> him… but it was kind of hotter if you didn’t. You had your own frustrations to work out.</p><p>The big bad wolf could fuck you hard enough to forget you were alone on Christmas.</p><p>“I think I can handle it.” He pulled harder and sucked another mark, this time enough to leave a bruise.</p><p>You let a moan slip out, grateful it was the time of year you could get away with wearing a scarf all week until those faded… because you wanted more—a whole little collection from Bryan Kneef’s filthy mouth.</p><p>“I knew you were a slut deep down…” He found the hem of your sweater and yanked it off over your head in one motion. “Having such filthy thoughts about your boss is naughty behavior,” he tutted. “Santa’s going to bring you coal.”</p><p>“And what about sexually harassing your employee?” You cocked an eyebrow, using the temporary space between you to posture with your hands on your hips defiantly.</p><p>“You’ve got no case for that one, sweetheart,” he chuckled darkly, stroking your cheek with unsettling fondness. “You barged into my private office and asked me out for drinks. Sounds like you’re just a slut.”</p><p>You glowered at him incredulously because… he wasn’t… wrong.</p><p>“It’s OK. I like sluts.” He smirked. The thumb stroking your cheek worked its way over your chin, brushed your pouted lips, and slipped between them. Your tongue instinctively darted out to taste the salty pad, and his eyes darkened with desire. “That’s right… take it, you filthy little—” He hissed when you nipped him hard enough to get his attention.</p><p>“And you’re lucky naughty boys are fun to play with.” You ran your tongue over his thumb soothingly.</p><p>His chest reverberated with a predatory grumble. You were going to pay for that. Within seconds he had your top off, and then your bra—his hands were everywhere, rough and demanding, not waiting for permission.</p><p>He wrapped one strong arm around your back to brace you and lowered his face to your breasts and started sucking on them, hard. His free hand kneaded your other breast, rolling the hardened peak under his thumb. Lightning shot through your body, making your back arch, your chest rising into his mouth. “Oh, Mr. Kneef…” you moaned, curling your fingers into his thick hair.</p><p>He was so ravenous his beard burned your skin, his tongue leaving wet trails of saliva along your abused breasts. Your nails dug into the back of his head as you pulled him deeper against you, encouraging every dangerous graze of his teeth and every mark he left on your skin that turned your lower body into molten lava.</p><p>“Fuck… yes, Mr. Kneef,” you panted. Always “Mr. Kneef.” It did something frenzied and primal to remember you were fucking your boss. Bryan wasn’t the kind of man you would fuck <em>unless</em> he was your boss. He wasn’t a lover, he was a kink.</p><p>Just when your raw nipples couldn’t take anymore, his mouth was on your lips again, assaulting your tongue with his, deep and persistent. There was a blur of movement. Your stomach lurched, the room spun, and suddenly you were on your back, on a mattress with Bryan on top of you.</p><p>Then he was sitting back, pulling his cashmere sweater off and unbuttoning his dress shirt while your fingers grasped at his belt, fumbling to unbuckle it. The tent straining the fabric beneath it was considerable, and that melting heat in your core was desperate for it.</p><p>You could see the dark need in Bryan’s eyes, but he managed a little more restraint than you were capable of in the moment. “Ground rules,” he said. “If you want to go through with this, there’s none of that fake lovey-dovey shit, understand? You are not my pretend-girlfriend. I am not going to be tender. There’s no cuddling.” His white undershirt fell open and revealed a broad chest covered in a forest of greying hair you wanted to get lost in. He followed the path of your eyes, and one corner of his lips twitched into a greedy smirk. “I am going to fuck you. Hard,” he growled, lowering his body on top of you, so close you could feel the heat of his skin on yours, the tickle of his chest hair on your sore breasts. His half-undone belt hung down and dragged on your hips. “I am fucking pissed about being dumped, and you are just a replacement. A body for me to fuck. That’s the deal—do you understand? Don’t come running to me Monday expecting any special attention.”</p><p>“Deal. On one condition.” You grabbed his beard and pulled his face down so his eyes were locked with yours. “You don’t fucking tell <em>anybody</em> about this. No one at work hears a <em>word</em>. No disgusting locking room talk. I am not one of your conquests. You want to tell anyone you got laid? It was Sydney.”</p><p>“Deal, Syd. Now shut the fuck up.”</p><p>You released his beard and pat his face condescendingly. He caught your wrist with an annoyed grunt, fingers circling it effortlessly, and pinned it beside your head on the mattress. Then he was stealing your breath with another fierce kiss, all teeth and tongue and snarling into your mouth. You felt dizzy when he finally broke it to pull his shirt the rest of the way off and toss it aside.</p><p>“Oh fuck, Mr. Kneef… you really are attractive,” you commented, running your free hand over his muscular chest and arms. God, those arms were the size of your head, with thick veins running their length.</p><p>He glanced down at you but barely took note of the way you were salivating over his body. He knew how hot he was. It wasn’t news. What interested him was <em>you</em>.</p><p>He slid your skirt and panties down over your hips, stripping you completely naked on the bed, and looked you over appreciatively. For someone who dressed so conservatively all the time at work, you were sexier than the real fucking Syd. He was starting to think it was a good thing the bitch dumped him—look at all he was missing out on being chained to one pussy.</p><p>“You OK?” you asked. You noticed him pause after getting your clothes off, and he had that strange sort of sad look again.</p><p>He blinked, and his eyes hardened.</p><p>His pants dropped to the floor so he was standing just in his boxers. Then he was on top of you, pushing you back down into the mattress, using his knees to spread your thighs apart. That wild, needy heat flared up within you, anticipating it.</p><p>You reached between his legs to cup his bulge through his underwear, his heavy balls, the stiff erection above it. His cock was so thick you gasped as your fingers surrounded it to take in its size, and couldn’t wrap all the way around.</p><p>“Fuck. Oh wow, fuck. That’s huge,” you husked, voice slurred with desire. “I guess when you strut around like you’ve got a huge dick, it’s for a good reason. I always thought you were compensating for something.”</p><p>He growled and thrust his hips between your spread legs so you could feel that massive cock grind against your pussy.</p><p>“Ohh—<em>fuck!</em>” you groaned. You considered the monster between Bryan’s legs, and suddenly the idea of him fucking you with it as hard as you asked for made your throat go dry. “I don’t know if I can take this all at once.”</p><p>“You won’t be able to walk right on Monday. Everyone’s going to know what a great holiday you had,” he promised sinfully. “I’m going to rip you in half.” He rocked his hips again, rubbing your clit with the pressure of it, and you felt yourself getting wetter.</p><p>“I fucking mean it, Bryan. You are actually going to hurt me with that thing.”</p><p>His face grew serious. “You want me to stop, say stop—any time. Say no. Slow down. I’m not going to fucking <em>hurt you.</em>”</p><p>That was entirely relieving, actually. You’d kind of jumped into this hoping he’d ride you hard and push you around, but the fantasy didn’t work if you weren’t in control if he pushed too far. You were actually putting a lot of trust in a man you hated because you were horny.</p><p>He felt like shit that you’d think he would actually hurt you like that. But he could hardly blame you. “If you can’t speak, tap out. Can you do that? Show me you know what I’m fucking talking about and you’re not just nodding along.”</p><p>You scowled indignantly and tapped three times on his arm.</p><p>“Good girl.” His beard was tickling the soft skin of your chest as he made a path of bites and kisses down your body. “Don’t worry, kitten. When I’m done, you’ll be begging for me.”</p><p>He lifted your legs over his shoulders and sucked a long, teasing mark into one of your thighs, pinching the flesh in his teeth, determined to leave a lasting impression with this one—so anyone else who might fuck you in the next few weeks would know he was there. Then he moved his attention to your already-drenched heat. He dipped one of his long, thick fingers in first, and you gasped, flinching as it plunged its full length up to the knuckle into you, and he chuckled at your reaction.</p><p>“You’re tight even around one finger,” he said. “Am I making you nervous?”</p><p>You looked down your body at Mr. Kneef, your asshole boss, between your legs, slowly pumping a finger inside you. “Fuck you.”</p><p>“Trying, but I’ve got my work cut out. What a beautiful pussy, though…”</p><p>Without warning, his tongue darted out and licked your clit. You felt yourself clench around his probing finger and relax again, flooding with warmth. He grinned against your heat and began eating you out relentlessly, filling the room with filthy wet sucking and lapping sounds. Your soft, whimpering cries filled the air, too—you tried not to make too much noise with his family in the house, but you couldn’t stop a few from slipping out. You yelped as he added fingers with just as little warning, stretching you open a little at a time. He changed up the pattern and speed of his tongue on your clit, always backing away just as the molten heat of your orgasm began to build to its delicious, irresistible heights. He didn’t stop until his beard was soaked, and your pussy was practically sucking his fingers in with the need to be satisfied—until you <em>were<em> begging for it.</em></em></p><p>“Please… Mr. Kneef—<em>ah! </em>Please let me come?”</p><p>“Now, now. You’re going to come on daddy’s cock.”</p><p><em>“Yes!”</em> you gasped, clawing at his hair, “Yes—fuck me. Oh god, fill me up with that perfect cock.”</p><p>He stripped his boxers off, and his red cock sprang free, already glistening with arousal, the smooth head pulled out of his foreskin. Veins snaked up the sides of it just like his arms and the backs of his hands. It was every bit as big and solid.</p><p>Kneeling between your legs, he gave his cock a few strokes and rubbed it through your dripping wet folds. The blunt, hot pressure of it sent waves of arousal up your spine. Your legs opened a little wider without your bidding them to.</p><p>“Wait!” you choked out, coming to your senses. “Condom.”</p><p>Bryan grumbled. “I’ve only been with one partner for the last three months. I’m clean.”</p><p>“Put a fucking condom on—”</p><p>“Or you’ll tell HR?”</p><p>“And your mom, too.”</p><p>“Bitch.” He smiled, the corners of his bright eyes wrinkling. Nobody ever called you that like it was a <em>compliment</em> before.</p><p>“Asshole.”</p><p>There were condoms in his business card case, as if he had rather expected the night to go this way.</p><p>When he finally entered you, he was studying your face almost tenderly for signs of pain or hesitation. He worked you open in a steady movement—not rough as promised, but not patiently waiting. His blunt head stretched you more than his fingers, but you were so sensitive already—so <em>close</em>—your walls eagerly gripped him, reshaping for his size, and the sore, burning sensation of being stuffed past your limit was one you relished as much as the pleasure.</p><p>Your legs hooked around the back of his thighs and guided him in until he was buried in your tight warmth.</p><p>Slowly at first, he rolled his hips fluidly until he was sure you could take it. When he felt you relax around his cock, your eyes on his with lust-blown desire, he snapped his hips against you once, the smack of flesh echoing through the quiet dark of the bedroom. A deep, startled moan followed it, torn out of your chest.</p><p>You were already at the limit of pressure your body could take just being filled by Bryan’s cock. The hard thrust went even deeper—too deep. You had never felt such a fullness before, and—<em>fuck</em>—he was hitting something so deep inside. Something that made your whole body start to melt. It didn’t matter if you could take it or not.</p><p>You wanted every inch of this bastard.</p><p>“Yes… That’s it… More. Give it to me.”</p><p>Bryan lifted your legs up onto his shoulders and leaned over you, pushing them toward your head. The new angle made him feel impossibly large, and when he found just the right angle for leverage, he started fucking you harder and deeper than you’d ever experienced. Every ruthless snap of his hips hit so deep it knocked the air from your lungs and drew a wailing moan from low in your throat.</p><p>He clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes a warning. “Quiet. Don’t wake the house.”</p><p>“Oh god… oh fuck, Bryan, you’re so… big.” Your voice shook as you tried to speak and hold back another moan.</p><p>Unlike the high, breathy gasps you usually gave, Bryan’s massive cock was pulling a new level of moan out of you, as penetrating as his thrusts. Another tore from your throat. You couldn’t hold it back if you wanted to, when his cock slammed into that spot that made you melt. It came from so deep within it shook your bones.</p><p>His hand covered your mouth again, and a fire kicked up in your stomach. The warmth of his salty palm pressing over your lips, pushing your head down into the mattress as he jackhammered into you—you were lost and aroused at the dominance of it. This time you grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand over your mouth tighter.</p><p>He tipped his head at you curiously, and you shot him a defiant look, grinning against his palm as he realized how much you liked being gagged.</p><p>“You like that, you little slut?”</p><p>You moaned even louder, letting him muffle you. You didn’t have to hold back now—the harder he rutted, the louder you wailed into the weight of his hand, which meant he didn’t have to hold back either.</p><p>The entire bed shook, legs scraping the floor with every powerful thrust as he fucked you into the mattress.</p><p>“Take that cock,” he grunted. “That tight pussy feels so good.”</p><p>Every stroke bottomed out, hitting depths you never thought possible, and hitting <em>something</em> that ached exquisitely and sent tendrils of molten heat out to your fingertips and down the base of your spine.</p><p>It came on so gradually you almost didn’t notice the warm tension building up in every part of your body until it was breaking over you like a wave. Bryan tightened his grip to silence your climax, sobbing into his hand, kissing it, but mostly just letting yourself cry out louder as wave after powerful wave shook you from toes to fingertips, making the world lose focus. All you could feel was him filling you so completely, fucking you through it as your walls convulsed around his cock, and the weight of his hand on your mouth holding you down, anchoring you.</p><p>He grunted, pumping faster, shallower as your walls clenched too tight to penetrate, then just as you were starting to come down from your high, his hips jerked, stuttering in their rhythm, and he heaved an exhausted, satisfied sigh as his hot release filled the condom.</p><p>His hips stilled. He slowly released your mouth, and you kept moaning, “Fuck… fuck… oh my god, fuck. That was so good.” Your skin was still prickling with warm needles, and you felt… vulnerable.</p><p>You felt him start to pull out and grabbed his thick ass, pulling him flush against you.</p><p>“Don’t...” you panted. “I want to feel you inside me a little longer.”</p><p>“I told you none of this clingy shit,” he frowned. His brow was beading with sweat, and a sheen covered his chest muscles. His pink nipples were hardened peaks in his greying chest hair.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” you sighed, head falling back on the pillows. You relaxed your legs off his shoulders and crossed them around his back, holding him in place. “I just love your cock. You’re still an asshole. Just shut up and pretend you’re someone nice for a second while I catch my breath.”</p><p>It wouldn’t last long before he grumbled about needing to shower and dispose of the condom. But for a few minutes, the callous Mr. Kneef did as he was told and held you as the stars faded behind your eyelids, and your breath stopped trembling. When he was quiet like that, his solid presence was comforting—an anchor when you felt like you might float away.</p><p>When he wasn’t taunting and condescending—being himself, in other words—you could imagine he was the kind of person you would <em>want</em> to hold you.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Wrong Gift</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bryan continues being a complete DILF (douchebag I'd like to fuck)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey. Wake up. It’s Christmas.”</p><p>You rolled over to see a fully dressed Bryan Kneef standing next to the bed in an unfamiliar bedroom. You hadn’t been drinking last night… so why did it feel like you were waking up with a hangover and regrets?</p><p>“Jesus,” you muttered, remembering the impulsive, ill-advised sex you’d had with your boss.</p><p>“That’s right. Baby Jesus, and wise men, and all that crap. Get up.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Breakfast was awkward.</p><p>His mother asked, “What would you like, Sydney?” about five times before Bryan nudged you in the ribs, and you remembered you were still playing his ex.</p><p>All the kids were awake and hyperactive.</p><p>You didn’t pack a change of clothes, and had no idea how much of your enthusiastic fucking his family had heard through the walls.</p><p>Thankfully you didn’t have to endure too much walk-of-shame thanks to Bryan’s brusque attitude. He felt none of the typical obligation to stay for family conversation at the table or watch the kids open presents, and had no compunctions about grabbing a cup of coffee for the road and leaving. Bryan didn’t give a shit about the smiling faces of youth. His nieces could enjoy their videogame gift cards without him.</p><p>So, within two hours of waking up, you were back in the deserted parking garage of STR Laurie where your car was parked overnight. It was a holiday morning, and Bryan’s BMW was the only other car there.</p><p>“Hang on,” Bryan said as you fished for your keys. “Come up for a minute.” He started walking toward the elevator up to the offices and jerked his head for you to follow.</p><p>You crossed your arms over your chest and scoffed. That fucking asshole just wanted to have sex with you again in the empty office.</p><p>
  <em>And that would be bad because…? </em>
</p><p>The devious voice in your head had a point. A shiver ran through your body, and not from the cold of December in Chicago.</p><p>You ran after him.</p><p>The elevator ride up was silent. It was eerie being in the building where you worked with Bryan, and were now going to go fuck Bryan. If it had stayed contained to last night, you could have compartmentalized—chalked the fling up to a crazed holiday fever-dream with no bearing on real life.</p><p>But you were in the STR Laurie office now. The elevator you’d ridden a hundred times. Bryan was your boss here.</p><p>As the elevator doors parted, the re-contextualization of your relationship made you feel like you were living in some parallel universe where everything was the same, except the color blue was replaced with green, and the carpets were different. Like something small, but significant, was off.</p><p>The office being completely deserted made it even more unsettling.</p><p>Bryan brought you into his office, the curtains drawn. Where it all began. When you’d walked in on him masturbating at his desk—your first glimpse at that magnificent cock of his—and instead of having any shame, he propositioned you for a date. Which you’d accepted. Because he was going to make everyone work late if you didn’t.</p><p>Fucking asshole.</p><p>God, he was so hot.</p><p>Was he the devil? Was Bryan Kneef the literal fucking devil here to tempt you? Because if he was, you’d like to book one ticket to Hell in advance, please. Your fare was already paid.</p><p>But instead of unbuckling his pants and telling you to get on your knees, he walked around to the opposite side of his desk and picked up a small, rectangular box and handed it to you.</p><p>It was wrapped in shiny silver paper and a gold bow. Under the bow, the tag read, “To Sydney, with love.” Bryan ripped it off before you had the chance to read the back.</p><p>“Open it,” he barked.</p><p>Inside was a glittering diamond necklace that must have cost ten times what you earned in a month. Your jaw fell open.</p><p>“Wh-what is this?”</p><p>“You have eyes, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yeah, I can fucking see what it is, Bryan! I can’t accept this.”</p><p>“You can. It’s for you, <em>Syd.</em>”</p><p>You stared. With his expensive suit and confident shoulders, he had an authoritative presence that was hard to argue with. But there was that sadness in his eyes again, and you had to wonder if he was having an actual mental breakdown. It seemed like you should at least <em>try</em> to talk him out of giving you several thousand dollars worth of jewelry on a whim.</p><p>“A necklace you bought for your ex? That’s pretty awkward. And it’s way too expensive. Seriously, this is too much.” You handed the box back to him.</p><p>“Consider it a bonus. For the favor.” He took it out of the box and moved behind you. You could feel his warm presence at your back, his breath on your neck as he draped the necklace around you and clasped it.</p><p>“Hmm,” you considered. “An inappropriate reward for inappropriate work done? Oddly fitting.”</p><p>“Glad that’s settled, because I don’t feel like returning it.” His lips came down hot and demanding on the side of your neck, just above the strand of diamonds. You could feel where the skin was already sore from the marks he left yesterday.</p><p>“Bryan.” You whipped around to face him, putting a hand on his chest to hold him back. “The deal was I play Syd for Christmas with your family. This can’t become a <em>thing.</em> OK?”</p><p>“It’s still Christmas. Technically we’re still on the same date.”</p><p>“Bryan…” you rolled your eyes.</p><p>“That’s Mr. Kneef to you—” he grabbed your hand off his chest “—Watch how you speak to your superiors.” His eyes were hard, but there was a telling smirk on his lips.</p><p>“Oh really? After your incredible, unethical abuse of power last night? Mr. Firth would fire you if he ever found out. So I think I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want, <em>Bry.</em>”</p><p>His grip tightened on your wrist at your goading. An ache began to throb between your legs, and a thrill—the building was completely empty. You wouldn’t have to be quiet here.</p><p>“You…” He pulled you close to his chest, and the throb grew into a roaring pulse. “Need to be taught some manners.”</p><p>“Rich, coming from you, ass.” You smirked, eyes challenging him.</p><p>You thought he was going to kiss you, but he pinched your lower lip between his teeth and tugged, snarling. He let go, and your lip snapped back in place.</p><p>“Bend over,” he growled, pushing you over the side of his desk—the spot you had cleared to sit on yesterday. You didn’t resist. Your heart was racing, and you couldn’t help wiggling your hips to draw even more attention to them. “Filthy little slut.” His hand trailed over your ass. He swatted it—not very hard and dulled by your skirt, but the shock made you gasp.</p><p>“Have I been bad, Mr. Kneef?”</p><p>“Very, very bad,” he purred, bending over you to whisper in your ear. You could feel through his beard that he was smiling, excited you were playing along. And you felt the hot bulge of his erection pressed against your ass.</p><p>His warm hand slipped under the hem of your skirt and pulled it up over your hips so you were exposed to him completely. “You knew what we were coming up here to do,” he mockingly tsk-tsked at your lack of panties, which you hadn’t worn since they were soaked with your arousal last night. His large hand kneaded your ass, spreading your cheeks, and running a finger through your wet folds.</p><p>You wanted to beg him to take you on his desk for being such a bad girl. Instead, what came out of your mouth was quiet but firm.</p><p>“This is the last time, Bryan.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>His hand left your ass and came back down swiftly.</p><p><em>“Ah!”</em> you cried out at the stinging that sent warm prickles racing through your skin. Bryan was bristling, completely back in the role he loved to play, and you encouraged.</p><p>“Filthy sluts with bad attitudes get punished.”</p><p>“Yes, daddy,” you moaned.</p><p>Another spank. Another yelp of pain and pleasure.</p><p>“This hurts me as much as it hurts you. But you have to learn your lesson. Disrespecting your superiors”—<em>thwack</em>—“Seducing your boss.” <em>Thwack!</em></p><p>“F-fuck, Mr. Kneef!”</p><p>He hummed. “Bad language, now?”</p><p>
  <em>Thwack!</em>
</p><p>“Sorry, Mr. Kneef,” you panted. “I’ll be good. I can be such a good girl for you.”</p><p>
  <em>Thwack!</em>
</p><p>Your skin felt like it was on fire, and he kept alternating sides—you were sure your whole ass was lit up like a Christmas tree.</p><p>“That was six,” he said. “How many more do you think you deserve?”</p><p>“Four more?”</p><p>“Five it is, then.” His palm struck your raw skin without mercy, each time harder than the last, counting down the end to your torment. Each time you thought about how much closer he was to fucking you with that exquisite cock.</p><p>There were tears in the corners of your eyes when he was through, but you were proud that you stood it without giving up and telling him to stop. You didn’t like (or completely trust) him, but he was pretty clear about that. You could always make him stop.</p><p>“P-please?” you whimpered, hips writhing. “Would you make me come now? Do I deserve a reward?”</p><p>Bryan grinned victoriously watching you, your face pressed onto his desk, begging for him. His cock twitched in his pants. But he didn’t give you what you wanted.</p><p>“How can I be sure you learned proper respect?” he asked. His hand gently caressed your raw skin, soothing it. “Hmm?”</p><p>“I’ll do anything, Mr. Kneef. Let me prove it to you.”</p><p>“On your knees, then.”</p><p>
  <em>Finally. </em>
</p><p>You knelt on the carpet as he unbuckled his pants, licking your lips in anticipation. He took his heavy cock in his hand and slapped your cheek with it until you opened your mouth. Just feeling the weight of that hot, thick head on your cheek made your pussy ache. You weren’t sure how you were going to get your lips all the way around it.</p><p>“I want to see those pretty lips wrapped around my cock. Now.”</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Kneef.” You stuck your tongue out and tasted the tip, hot and salty, pulsing with blood. Then you opened your jaw as wide as it could go and let the fat head of his cock fill up your mouth.</p><p>Bryan gave a long, satisfied sigh. “That’s a much better use for that filthy mouth of yours. Always talking back. Questioning me...” He rocked his hips forward, and you choked as just that slight motion made him hit the back of your throat. You looked up and saw him smirk sadistically.</p><p>The devil. He was the devil, and his cock made you so fucking wet.</p><p>You swallowed as much of him as you could fit, which wasn’t even half the length of his shaft, but you made up for the shallow depth with enthusiasm. You swirled your tongue in patterns over the underside of his cock as you bobbed on him, lightly with just the point, and then broad, thick strokes. You pumped the base of his shaft with your hand in time with the bobbing of your head, but your tongue—your tongue followed no rules. It was everywhere at once.</p><p>“God… fuck,” Bryan groaned. “That fucking feisty tongue knows what it’s doing.” He’d be thinking about it every time you talked back to him from now on—remembering your tongue was skilled as it was sharp.</p><p>His hand rested on the back of your head and clenched down in your hair. At first, he followed the rhythm you were setting, but slowly guided you faster, deeper. You moaned around his cock, muffled on it, the sound a mix of arousal and anxiety. You weren’t sure if you could handle such a massive object shoved down your throat at the pace he was planning, but you couldn’t voice these concerns except with a whimpering moan and pleading eyes looking up.</p><p>“You said you want to prove yourself, didn’t you?” He quirked a brow. “You want to show daddy how good you can be?” He pulled your hair, tugging you off his cock so you could answer.</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Kneef. But you’re too big, I’ll—”</p><p>He gave a firmer tug. “I want you to choke on this cock,” he growled. “Can you choke on daddy’s cock, kitten?”</p><p>Your breath caught, and you felt lightheaded, heat rushing between your legs. “Y-yeah. <em>Fuck.</em> Please make me your sex toy.”</p><p>“That’s my good girl. Open.”</p><p>You opened your mouth. His fingers knotted in your hair, and he thrust his hips forward once, and again—his cock stretched your throat until you couldn’t breathe. You gagged, and he released you to catch your breath. But you determinedly went back at it, grasping the back of his legs for leverage—not that you needed it. Strong hands in your hair held your head firm as Bryan’s hips pumped, forcing you to follow his pace, which was fast and rough and deep. You sputtered as his cock stuffed you full, but managed to hold off your gag reflex.</p><p>He purred encouragements and instruction—“Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Good girl. Relax. Just like that.” It helped. When you were getting a handle on having your face fucked, that was when he drove into you harder, ramming your throat until tears were streaming down your face. He sank deep inside you and held himself there, forcing your face to stay pressed flush against him, your nose buried in his pubic hair, his long, thick cock filling your throat.</p><p>Bryan moaned deeply, circling his hips, and you could feel the movement of his tip at the back of your throat. His hands were unmoveable on the back of your head, holding you at his mercy. Suddenly the feeling of helplessness was too intense. You started to gag, throat tightening. It was too fucking much. He was too big, and you couldn’t breathe.</p><p>You frantically slapped his pants three times in quick succession, and the pressure let up. He backed out, pulling his slick cock all the way from your lips. You coughed and wheezed in a shaky breath.</p><p>“You OK?” he asked, and from the tone of it, it sounded like he might actually give a shit—at least a little—if you were.</p><p>“Yeah. Panicked, that’s all,” you panted. “You’re so fucking big, I thought I was going to die.” You thought about it and smirked. “It would be a fun death, at least…”</p><p>“Choked to death on daddy’s cock…” Bryan said, scratching his beard. “I’ll have that engraved on your tombstone.”</p><p>He breathed in sharply as your lips returned to his glistening pink head, kissing it as your hands gently felt the heft of his balls.</p><p>“Yeah? You want more?” he purred. His cock nudged your lips insistently.</p><p>“Take me,” you begged, eyes heavily lidded, voice thick. “I can do it, Mr. Kneef. I promise.” You opened your mouth wide for him, sliding down on his cock as far as you could, determined to prove yourself. He hummed with appreciation, and you felt the vibration of it in his cock. You hummed back, savoring him, using your tongue to lick him up and down, and felt his muscles twitch in response.</p><p>His big hands stroked your hair tenderly at first, letting you do all the work, then slowly moved to the back of your head, taking more control. You moaned enthusiastically, gripping his ass and pulling his hips into you. Bryan groaned, and his hips began moving on their own again, his hands getting rougher as they pulled your hair. Then he was holding you steady as he fucked your throat, delighting in the choking noises and moans you were making. Your hands stayed on his ass, loving the sensation of his muscles jerking and convulsing beneath them with each powerful stroke. The heat building between your legs was almost unbearable—you squeezed your thighs together to create some friction, and your own arousal coated the inside of your legs. Fuck, you were wet. You couldn’t wait for him to fuck you or eat you out—you remembered his skill with his fingers.</p><p>Bryan’s breath quickened and turned into low grunts and swears. He was close. The taste of his arousal filled your senses on top of his musky, masculine scent.</p><p>“Ready for daddy’s come?” he grunted.</p><p>His grip tightened in your hair, keeping himself buried in your throat as his hot seed spurted down it, your name on his lips.</p><p>Not Syd. Your real name.</p><p>Then he pulled your hair, forcing your head back, popping your mouth off his cock. A rope of come hit your lips. He fisted his cock and finished jerking himself off onto your hickey-covered neck.</p><p>“There,” he smirked, hiding his hitched, shallow breathing behind bravado. “Now you’ve got a pearl necklace to go with the diamonds.”</p><p>“Gee, thanks.” You were honestly stunned sometimes that you were attracted to this man.</p><p>He dabbed himself off with a tissue from his desk and tucked himself away. He gave the front of his pants a quick inspection for stains, smoothed his jacket, and left you kneeling on the floor.</p><p>“Hey! You gonna repay the favor?” you called after him.</p><p>Bryan stopped in the doorway and turned to face you. “You already got your reward”—he indicated the necklace—“We’re done here.”</p><p>Your cheeks burned hot. “Excuse me?! Diamonds are <em>not</em> payment for giving you a blowjob. I’m not your whore.”</p><p>“From where I’m standing, it looks like you are.” His brows raised sardonically.</p><p>Your jaw opened. It reformed from a confused gape to an enraged snarl and every shape in between as you tried to stammer out a response.</p><p>He shrugged, head tilting. “I’d hate for that to be your reputation if this encounter came to light. If someone called HR.”</p><p>“You… you <em>FUCK.</em>”</p><p>“Glad we have an understanding.”</p><p>You were shaking with anger when he left, a smirk on his face. You could hear him whistling to himself as he sauntered down the hall. You tried to make sense of what just happened. All you could come up with was that you hated him.</p><p>You fucking <em>hated</em> Bryan Kneef.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Elevator</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say sexual attraction correlates to genetic compatibility. A subconscious impulse based on subtle cues of pheromones and facial symmetry all honed by millions of years of evolution for the purpose of creating the fittest offspring. It’s what the layman calls “chemistry.”</p><p>In other words, it wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t get Bryan Kneef out of your head. It was nature.</p><p>Stupid fucking nature.</p><p>He made no attempt to reach out or apologize over the weekend. When Monday rolled around, you were expecting him to be all smug winks and innuendos, but he displayed no acknowledgment whatsoever that anything had changed between you.</p><p>Which was what you wanted!</p><p>He called you into his office that morning and your spine had the nerve—the absolute <em>nerve!</em>—to feel a spark of excitement running down it. You even closed the door behind you, just in case. Bryan handed you an assignment with the same cold demeanor he always had, then returned his focus to his computer screen like you were any other paralegal whose existence meant nothing to him.</p><p>Even though you still had rug burns on your knees from the last time you were in that office.</p><p>You lingered a second too long waiting for him to pull some inappropriate bullshit—just so you could shoot him down and give him a piece of your mind. Your eyes drilled into him with unspoken fury. He simply raised his eyebrows and asked, “Will that be all?” as if there was nothing to talk about.</p><p>Which there wasn’t.</p><p>Because nothing had happened. And nothing would ever happen again.</p><p>That was what you’d both agreed. None of your coworkers could ever know you left together on Christmas Eve, or that he brought you to his parents’ house pretending to be the girlfriend who recently broke up with him, or especially not that you’d banged it out later.</p><p>It was good that he was ignoring you. It made it easier.</p><p>Because as much as you hated him, your stupid horny brain still made you wet every time you remembered his cock down your throat. It made your heart tug thinking how soft and concerned his beautiful eyes could be in a fleeting moment of tenderness. It made you elevate your usual comfort-based outfits just to make him see what he was missing out on.</p><p>By Wednesday, the bites and beard-burns on your neck had faded enough that you didn’t need a scarf. All that was left was one deep, dark bruise on the inside of your thigh, and soon that would be faded, too.</p><p>Then on Thursday, Mr. Kneef called you into his office and asked you to close the door.</p><p>The STR Laurie offices were still decorated for the holidays with festive lights, trees, paper snowflakes, and menorahs, but Bryan’s private office was bare. All the furniture was minimalist and dark, with a masculine absence of any whimsy.</p><p>He was at his desk, reclining casually in his leather office chair, his eyes on a document in his lap. He didn’t look up as you entered.</p><p>“I’ve got another job for Sydney.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“New Year’s Eve party. My brother and mom will be there. I haven’t told them we broke up yet.”</p><p>“That sounds like a you problem.”</p><p>He flipped the papers in his lap closed and finally acknowledged your presence, eyes sliding over you with an imperceptible hitch in his throat. In your tall boots, long winter skirt, and sharp jacket, you felt powerful and sexy. And he noticed.</p><p>“I’ll need you to play the part again,” he continued explaining as if you hadn’t just said no twice. “Hang on my arm. Look pretty. There will be an open bar. Catered dinner from Spiaggia. Good company.”</p><p>“Jee. Wow,” you rolled your eyes. “You must be fucking kidding if you think I’ll ever go out with you again, pretend or otherwise.”</p><p>“I recall you having fun last time,” he smiled with innuendo.</p><p>“You threatened to tell everyone I was a whore.”</p><p>He scoffed. “That’s what you’re upset over? You threatened to tell HR that I abused my authority over you.”</p><p>“You <em>did!</em>”</p><p>“Well, you were kind of a whore.” He raised his eyebrows sardonically.</p><p>“Fuck you.” You turned to leave, but Bryan raised a hand to stop you, sinking back in his chair and locking eyes with you with a smile.</p><p>“Calm your tits. That was just mutually assured destruction. I haven’t been spreading nasty rumors, have I?”</p><p>“Not that I know of,” you admitted.</p><p>“See? We had a deal, and I’m holding up my end. Now you have to come through on yours. If you recall, I told you ‘Syd’ and I would break up after New Year’s. Those were the terms you agreed to.”</p><p>“No. I agreed to Christmas dinner. That’s it. Just because you’re too chickenshit to tell your mom you got dumped doesn’t mean we have to be seen in public together. I don’t want to be seen in public with you again. Because guess what? It <em>wasn’t</em> fun. Being your date sucks.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> sucked,” he quipped, leaning forward onto the desk with a wicked, seductive smirk. “Like a damned Hoover.”</p><p>Your fists balled at your sides, a hot flush of anger in your face and blood pulsing in your ears. It may have been more than just anger, you were loath to admit.</p><p>Then all of a sudden, a calm came over you.</p><p>As much as you hated him, you had been certain your horny side would give in the minute he flirted with you again. Fuck, you had such little self-respect you were fine with him just using you for sex—he had been pretty explicit about that last time, and it <em>turned you on.</em> But now… he was right in front of you, and all you could think was that he never apologized, even a little bit. Not even a hint that he gave a single shit his behavior hurt you.</p><p>“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Bryan,” you said coldly. “Because I am never helping you—or fucking you—again. You’re a pig, and your dick isn’t worth my time.”</p><p>“I <em>did</em> give you a diamond necklace.”</p><p>“Have it back. What would I even wear that gaudy thing with? People will think I stole it.”</p><p>His face fell at that. Not dramatically. Bryan didn’t have many tells, but you’d been dealing with him long enough to see it when the spark went out of his eyes. Apparently, he thought those diamonds were his trump card. The other women who shared his bed must have been more easily bought with shallow trinkets (and deep pockets), but it made you uncomfortable the moment you accepted it.</p><p>Funny how an expensive gift could make you feel cheap.</p><p>“Fine,” Bryan grumbled caustically. He shoved the document he’d been holding toward you. “Here’s the research I need on my desk by Friday.”</p><p>You picked it up off his desk. It was thick. Just glancing at it, you could tell you were looking at a full day or more of work.</p><p>“Is there a problem?” he said.</p><p>“Friday is New Year’s Day. That’s tomorrow.”</p><p>“Lawsuits don’t disappear because it’s a holiday, sweetheart.”</p><p>“Really?” You stared at his cruel, self-satisfied face. “Are you <em>really</em> being this obvious?”</p><p>“What? You’re not doing anything tonight. If I knew you had somewhere important to be, maybe I could find someone else to do it.”</p><p>“Fuck you. This is literally extortion. Not to mention the same move as Christmas—real original, genius.”</p><p>“Extortion?” He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head. “That’s a serious accusation. I hope you have proof. The case is legitimate, and so is the work. Sounds like a desperate smear attack by a petty employee who didn’t want to do her job. <em>Tsk tsk.</em>”</p><p>Your fists clenched tighter. “Someday, karma’s going to bite you in the ass, and I hope I’m there to laugh when it happens.”</p><p>“Come to the party, and the work goes away.”</p><p>“I’ll have it on your desk tomorrow, Mr. Kneef.” You gave him the most devastatingly pleasant customer-service smile he had ever seen, and marched out of his office with the file.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan was in a shit mood for the rest of the day, glowering around the office like an angry bull looking for someone to trample. He blew up at an intern and assigned a paralegal to bates stamp an entire document by hand for no apparent reason except it being a dick thing to do.</p><p>But you, he avoided. Conspicuously. Even as the staff thinned out as the day drew to a close, you were the one person he wouldn’t acknowledge.</p><p>Baby.</p><p>
  <em>Asshole.</em>
</p><p>Your stomach grumbled. You would have to come back later to finish the spite-work he’d assigned you, but for now, you needed to go grab dinner. You made your way to the elevator.</p><p>Just as you were leaving, a large hand stopped the elevator doors from closing.</p><p>Bryan Kneef stepped in.</p><p>He stood directly in front of you, eyes boring into you, all rage and popped neck veins. He wasn’t the tallest man in the world, but he gave off an imposing aura that made you feel like you were staring up at a giant. And god, he smelled delicious. You swallowed.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Come to the New Year’s party with me.” The demand was different this time. There was a desperate edge to it.</p><p>“You never hear ‘no,’ do you?”</p><p>“Do you want a raise?” he sneered.</p><p>“I’m not taking any favors from you. Fuck off.”</p><p>Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to fuck off for at least a few minutes. The doors had already closed, and the vintage elevator that had only been updated aesthetically since the building was built took its time descending from the tall Chicago skyline.</p><p>“What do I have to do?” Bryan huffed. “We… get along. My parents loved you. They won’t stop talking about how great you are. It’s annoying. You had fun last time until I was a dick about the blowjob. Just. Fucking do this for me?”</p><p>“Begging now, are we?”</p><p>“Fucking… Yes.”</p><p>Some of the anger you’d been holding onto started to dissipate. It wasn’t an apology, but just hearing him admit wrongdoing was… well, for Bryan Kneef, fairly huge. It made you wonder why this was so important to him, anyway. He could have just told his family Syd had a cold. He <em>wanted</em> you to be there. Desperately enough to <em>beg.</em> Jesus. You’d never seen him like this.</p><p>But you couldn’t forgive the way he’d treated you last time.</p><p>“On your knees.”</p><p>“What?” Bryan blinked.</p><p>“I want you to beg on your knees. Then I’ll consider it.”</p><p>“Nice try,” he chuckled, crossing his arms.</p><p>“Then forget it,” you shrugged dismissively. “You paid me off and called me a whore. Which, you know, there are plenty of sex workers in this city who’d be happy to take your money, Bryan, but that’s not <em>my</em> job. If you can’t show me the respect I deserve—”</p><p>The elevator chimed for level six, and the doors slid open to a balding businessman who tried to step in. Bryan whipped around, radiating hellfire.</p><p>“Take the stairs,” he snarled. The man stopped in his tracks and backed up. The doors slid closed.</p><p>“I’m not going to pretend to be your ex-girlfriend every time you snap your fingers,” you continued, voice firm. “So, you want me to do it again? Show me… how much… you <em>need</em> it.”</p><p>He hit the stop elevator button, and it came jerking to a halt.</p><p>His mouth twitched, and his eyes fixed you with a predatory glare. They stayed on you without blinking as he slowly sank to his knees at your feet. The tips of his ears were turning a shade of red. This was <em>painful</em> for him. But for some reason, he wanted you so badly he would let you win.</p><p>“That’s a good boy, Bryan. Was that so hard?” you purred, curling your fingers under his chin and giving his beard a scratch. His eyes drooped closed at the touch.</p><p>He was like a puppy when you scratched his beard. He nuzzled into your hand until he was kissing from your palm to your fingertips. You ran your pointer finger over his lower lip, soft and pouting, standing out pink against his dark beard. Your finger slipped between his lips, and he sucked on it obediently, greedily, his tongue dancing over it. You moaned softly at the sensation, but it was the image—the implicit transfer of power—that made your skin prickle and your heart race.</p><p>When you finally retracted it, his eyes were hungry for more. “Please?” he begged softly. “I promise I’ll be good.”</p><p>You bit your lip. The sight of Mr. Kneef on his knees, begging submissively, fed a fire in your core and sent blood flooding between your legs.</p><p>Bryan leaned forward, his strong hands gripping the back of your thighs. He pushed up your knee-length skirt and kissed your soft inner thighs.</p><p>“Wh-what are you—”</p><p>“Please?” he growled huskily. “I owe you one. Let me make it up to you.” His mouth was hot against the soft skin as he moved upward, pushing your skirt up above your panties.</p><p>You gasped, leaning back against the elevator wall, arousal drenching you as his beard tickled your legs. You hadn’t planned this much—just a little show of humility would have been enough—but fuck, you wanted this. You knew what Bryan’s mouth could do, and you were high on the rush of power.</p><p>It was a mistake, and you knew it. Hooking up with your boss was a mistake the first two times, and it was never supposed to happen again. But it wasn’t your fault he was so attractive.</p><p>
  <em>Fucking nature.</em>
</p><p>“That’s good… That’s very good, Bryan. But how can I be sure you’ve learned your lesson?” Your legs spread wider for him, and his mouth moved higher. Your throat felt thick, your breath shaking with need. “You want to prove yourself… to show me you’re really sorry?”</p><p>He looked up at you with a devilish grin. “Yes, your fucking grace.”</p><p>He pulled aside your panties and dragged two fingers through your wetness. His smile grew wider and more wicked when his fingers came back coated.</p><p>“Then make me come,” you whispered.</p><p>He lunged, sinking his knuckles deep inside you as his mouth assaulted your clit. Your fingers curled into his hair, pulling him hard against your cunt.</p><p>You moaned wantonly—the elevator was stopped between floors and the doors were thick. Besides, no one from your department would know it was you. You propped your leg up on the hand railing, spreading yourself for him as his fingers raced, pumping in and out of you, as you wailed out with every merciless thrust. He wasted no time trying to get you to come, his tongue lapping noisily in a wet, lascivious frenzy. His lips closed around your swollen, aching bud, and your back arched, heat building quickly.</p><p>“Yes, Bryan—suck it. Suck my clit. Oh, <em>fuck!</em>”</p><p>He sucked you harder, pulsing the intensity while his tongue flicked over it in circles and his fingers plunged deeper, never missing a beat.</p><p>Your nails dug into his scalp as every muscle in your body tightened to burning. “Harder—<em>fuck me</em>—ah! H-harder!”</p><p>All at once, your cunt was convulsing around Bryan’s long fingers in powerful waves that radiated out through your body. A tingling warmth washed over you, and your tongue felt heavy—your pleas for more turned to babbling whines. No longer capable of words, you held his head firm, riding it through your orgasm, letting out a wail that echoed off the elevator walls as your eyes squeezed shut and you focused on nothing but the release of pleasure between your legs.</p><p>Bryan’s slippery tongue took a last taste of your overstimulated clit, making your hips jerk into his mouth, then pulled his fingers from your tightness, dripping with your arousal. He sucked them clean, deliberately slurping and moaning on each one, letting you hear how much he savored it.</p><p>Bryan stood, pulled out his pocket square, wiped down his soaked beard, and hit the button again. The elevator lurched and resumed its descent.</p><p>Panting, your back against the wall, wetness dripping down your thigh, you let your leg drop back down to the floor and smoothed your skirt.</p><p>Just like nothing had happened.</p><p>You looked over at Bryan, still catching your breath. He was putting on a much more convincing casual act, but his vibrant green eyes brightened when they caught your gaze, their corners wrinkling with mirth. He raised an eyebrow at you.</p><p>“Fine,” you conceded. “I’m a whore. What time should I be ready?”</p><p>“I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear the necklace.”</p><p>“And you’ll get someone to cover that research?”</p><p>He laughed. “I don’t need that until next week. It’s a fucking holiday. Nobody’s working.”</p><p>The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and he was gone without a backward glance.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rebounds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re early!” You smiled as you opened your door to Bryan Kneef a full hour before he said he’d pick you up. Just as quickly, your eyes narrowed, arms folding over your chest. “You’re early.”</p><p>He pushed past you into your apartment, ignoring your suspicious glare. When you went to protest, he shoved three garment bags in your hands, expensive brand marks hinting at the expenses dresses within.</p><p>“Try these on. You’ll need them. I assume all you have to wear is a burlap sack?”</p><p>He looked disapprovingly around your small apartment. It somehow managed to be sparse but cluttered at the same time, with not enough furniture to fill the space and papers piled on top of the round dining table. String lights and a weird shrine to Carl Sagan in a Santa hat were the only holiday decorations. You were so organized and detail-oriented at work, but apparently that ended when your shift did. Half of your belongings were still in cardboard boxes.</p><p>“Hah-hah,” you deadpanned, giving a twirl. The dress you’d chosen wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.</p><p>“You’re embarrassing me,” Bryan said, and didn’t feel as satisfied as he thought when your face fell. “This is an elite event, and my date needs to look like she belongs there. Put one of those on.”</p><p>“How much did these cost?” you frowned.</p><p>“Pocket change as far as <em>I’m</em> concerned.” He gave a low growl, stalking toward you and snaking a seductive hand around your hip. “Don’t worry. Didn’t we already establish that you’re my whore?”</p><p>You gritted your teeth and threw a hand out against his chest as if to push him away—but didn’t follow through on the pushing. Your eyes locked onto his, fierce and bright, like you could punch him or shove him down on your couch and take him right there, and both were equally likely.</p><p>“I don’t know if you calling me that turns me on, or if I fucking hate you.”</p><p>“Just try them on,” he smiled, slapping your ass to spur you into action. You shot him a glare, but a playful one, and grumbled your way to the bedroom to change. You were starting to accept the fact that Bryan was <em>going</em> to spoil you for as long as you were his.</p><p>How much longer that meant was a topic he avoided thinking about.</p><p>After three months with Syd—the real Syd—he thought he was falling in love. And look how that had ended. Being dumped was devastating. Bryan was usually the one doing the dumping, leaving broken hearts in his wake. He was never one for long-term commitment. Why would anyone settle down with one partner when there was a feast out there waiting to be had? And the one time he actually cared a little, <em>she</em> dumped <em>him</em>.</p><p>You were supposed to be a replacement. Someone he could just fuck and pretend it was her—or to remember how much better it felt to play the field than to be locked down. A sex toy.</p><p>And yet…</p><p>He couldn’t let you go after one weekend. He needed another taste. And not just to pretend you were Sydney while he fucked you. It was more like he wished Syd had been you.</p><p>Sydney never asked him not to pull out yet because she just wanted to hold him. The faster she could clean up, the better. You didn’t even like him—you were very clear on that—you were just horny, but you took comfort in his arms. Even when you weren’t trying to be sweet, you were sweet.</p><p>That should have felt suffocating... but it didn’t.</p><p>It made him feel, in that moment, like he wasn’t just a corporate piece of shit. It felt warm.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>You were the type of sentimental idiot destined to find true love. He could tell from the way you made fun of him for thinking three months was a long relationship—the way his parents adored you. His parents celebrated their golden anniversary with a Caribbean cruise. If Bryan was going to make it fifty years with someone, he’d have to get married now. And live to a hundred.</p><p>You emerged from the bedroom poured into the curve-hugging, neck-plunging, shimmering gown he’d selected.</p><p>With a shy look on your face that didn’t match the confident dress at all, you asked if it was too tight. Your face tensed after asking. You knew you’d made a mistake—that he was <em>definitely</em> going to be an asshole and tease you.</p><p>He stood up off the couch where he’d been waiting. A predatory look darkened his eyes as he crossed the living room, but you didn’t run from it. Your breath shuddered as he grabbed your waist, dragging you roughly against his hips. His other hand—large as your face, with veins webbing the back—came up to stroke your jawline, caressing with surprising gentleness down the side of your neck until his thumb rested on the sparkling necklace glittering upon your soft skin.</p><p>Lips against your cheek, he smirked. “Now people won’t think you stole the diamonds.”</p><p>Turning your head, you kissed him. It was so sudden, he forgot to react until your tongue was tasting the seam of his lips, probing it for entrance. He moaned, kissing you back just as warm, and deep, and insistent. It was hard to remember that it was just sex locked in a kiss like that with you, your light scent intoxicating him. So he broke it off, working his mouth down your chin, tracing his hand’s previous path down your neck as you whimpered beneath him.</p><p>He tugged the wrapped fabric of the plunging neckline aside until your breasts spilled out.</p><p>“The marks I left last time are fading,” he observed, voice heavy. “I better refresh them…”</p><p>“K-keep it under the dress,” you whined helplessly as his lips closed around a nipple, tongue laving over it. Your fingers ran through his hair—another tender, needy gesture that betrayed your protests.</p><p>“I’ll keep them hidden,” he mumbled into your skin, smiling wickedly against it. “We want people to think you’re a woman with class tonight. Can’t let them know you’re my private whore.”</p><p>Your fingers clenched, pulling his roots just to the edge of pain. But it wasn’t to yank him away—the pressure was all pushing him deeper against your chest. Your tits were so sensitive, he wondered if he could make you come just from licking them…</p><p>“Yes,” you sighed, breathless and panting from his tongue, “I’m your whore. I’ll do anything for you.”</p><p>Bryan loved when you got like this; when he turned you on so much, you dropped all pretense and gave in to the pleasure. His cock twitched in his pants when he felt your hips rocking back and forth, seeking something to rub against.</p><p>The dress’s split skirt was short enough for him to slip underneath and feel the wetness soaking through your panties. You moaned at just the touch of one of his fingers through your clothes, lowered your mouth to his ear, and begged for more, which he was happy to oblige. Moving your panties aside, he slid two fingers in, and you gasped.</p><p>“Oh, fuck—more. Please, Bryan!”</p><p>His name. Not <em>Mr. Kneef</em>, like when you were role-playing up the taboo of fucking your asshole boss. His name. Fuck, why did it make him feel warm?</p><p>He slipped a third finger inside, a tight fit, but you moaned deeply at the stretch, already loosened up from the previous encounter in the elevator a few hours prior.</p><p>Your palm slid down the front of his pants, stroking his clothed erection. He groaned, his cock kicking into the sweet pressure, and your fingers began to fumble with his belt until he grabbed your wrist and pinned it behind your back.</p><p>“No, no, sweetheart. We don’t want to mess up your pretty dress,” he purred in your ear, mouth leaving your hardened nipple. His eyes set into a delicious threat. “I’ll get you back later… because now you owe me.”</p><p>You shivered at the promise, fantasizing about what evil plans he had to make up for holding off coming as his mouth returned to your chest. You wailed as he sucked a bruise into your soft flesh, turning to his task of marking you with his mouth and teeth. His skilled, powerful fingers drove into you over and over, stretching your aching cunt as he mercilessly fucked you in the middle of your living room, sucking on your tits until your body shuddered.</p><p>“Oh… god!” you screamed his name as pleasure ripped through your body.</p><p>Bryan smiled, giving your nipple a hard suck as your walls fluttered around his hand. You moaned helplessly, your legs starting to go limp. He pulled you against his chest to steady you—and pulled you into a kiss, just so he could capture your moans in his mouth. Just so he could feel connected to you at the moment you came.</p><p>He quickly broke away, shoving those touchy-feely thoughts down.</p><p>You pulled away, too, as soon as it was over, which surprised him. The first time you fucked, you wanted to hold onto him after. And you were so pissed off when he’d walked out right after coming in your mouth. Bryan was always the one walking out, pulling away, only reluctantly conceding to any intimacy. Maybe that first night, you holding him was a fluke. Maybe you were learning.</p><p>If he thought back, he <em>had</em> had a few partners who were cuddly with him at first. But he’d trained them out of it. They knew he’d always pull away, so they learned to do it first. And then it was over, and he forgot them. Just another conquest. Another failure, if he was honest with himself.</p><p>You were quiet for a while as you righted your dress, making sure none of his marks indeed showed above the neckline. The heavy sort of quiet that preceded saying something difficult.</p><p>It made Bryan uneasy, so he peevishly broke the silence, telling you, “Get ready to go. We’re running late,” even though you were technically still early. He hoped it would interrupt your thoughts and stop whatever was coming.</p><p>“We can’t keep doing this,” you said.</p><p>And there it was. He was just <em>thinking</em> about the <em>possibility</em> of feeling something about you, and you were already done.</p><p>“There is no <em>this,</em>” he sneered. “This is just sex. No cuddly emotional bullshit. No special favors at work. I thought I was pretty fucking clear on that the first time—”</p><p>“I know. And that’s why I thought it would be OK. Why not go for a ride? It’ll be fun and meaningless. And it <em>was</em> fun. The things you do to me are…” You blinked a few times to clear your head before you got aroused again. “Once is just sex. But if we keep this up… it becomes a relationship.”</p><p>Bryan gave a sarcastic scoff.</p><p>You narrowed your eyes back at him. “I know I’m not going to be your <em>girlfriend</em>, but like it or not, it’s a relationship. A toxic one. We can’t keep being each other’s rebounds.”</p><p>It shouldn’t have stung. He was on the same page about this being a one-time thing. But so what if your one-time thing happened a few more times? He just wanted to keep you around for a little longer, until he got bored. You made him feel good.</p><p>And you thought he was toxic.</p><p>Ironic. The king of players was being iced out by some affectionate serial monogamist.</p><p>Your eyes searched him with too much pity. He couldn’t bear those eyes, almost apologetic. As if you’d hurt him.</p><p><em>You</em> were the one being too emotional. It was just sex. You were the one who couldn’t handle fucking without getting your weepy baby feelings involved. That was what was happening here.</p><p>It just infuriated him that you thought this was a rebound for him. Sydney didn’t mean shit to him—he didn’t need a <em>rebound</em>.</p><p>Though your exact words were...</p><p>“Each <em>other’s</em> rebounds?”</p><p>Your eyes widened. He regained his cold, superior smirk at this bit of personal knowledge you hadn’t meant to let slip. You gained the upper hand on him because you’d learned so much about his personal life, but he knew almost nothing about you except what was on your resume. This was his way back to control.</p><p>You grumbled. You sighed. “It was a month ago. I’m… over it, mostly. But we were together for two years. He was an asshole.”</p><p>“So you’ve got a type,” Bryan laughed.</p><p>“Not really, no,” you said. “Why do you think I was the only one to give you shit for making us work through Christmas? I don’t care if you fire me. I’ve been thinking of moving back to New York, anyway. All my friends are there, my family. I only moved to Chicago for him.”</p><p>New York. Eight hundred miles. He was glad you weren’t looking directly at his face. He wasn’t sure what you might have seen there.</p><p>“That’s why this”—you gestured between the two of you—“only complicates things. I don’t need another reason to want to stay.”</p><p>Before he knew what his body was doing, he was hugging you. Like a fucking idiot. Not groping, fondling, or pawing your ass. Just holding your seemingly fragile frame to his chest, like it would protect you somehow. Like squeezing you would relieve the odd squeezing in his heart.</p><p>“Tonight’s the last time, then,” he said, breathing in the fragrance of your hair. “Syd and I officially break up after New Year’s. That’s always been the deal.”</p><p>“My carriage turns into a pumpkin at midnight,” you joked, though your voice sounded too tight to be laughing. You hugged him back.</p><p>“Oh, I plan on keeping you up until dawn,” Bryan growled, deep and possessive. “I own your ass until then.”</p><p>Your body melted in his arms at that. “Yes, daddy.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Holiday Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The LogicFinance New Year’s Eve party wasn’t as massive as the gathering at The Drake, but it was one of Chicago’s preeminent places to ring in the new year if you had the means. Hundreds of guests—mainly employees, families, VIP clients, and business partners—took over the ballrooms of a stately hotel. Timothy Kneef, the CEO, managed to score one of the best restaurants in the city to serve dinner. Proof that while his party was not the biggest, it was the most exclusive.</p><p>You wobbled on Bryan’s arm as you walked in. This was <em>not</em> like when you’d been his fake girlfriend for Christmas at a quiet family dinner. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ballroom ceiling, softly lighting the elegant guests below. All the men were in tuxedos and black tie. All the women looked like they’d arrived by private jet directly from a Paris runway.</p><p>“Bryan,” you hissed in his ear, fingers tightening around his arm. “I changed my mind, Bryan. I do not belong here.”</p><p>“Tough. You’re staying until midnight,” he growled back.</p><p>“I feel like these rich people are going to try to <em>buy</em> me. I am a middle-class woman, Bryan. Don’t let them sell me to a sheikh.”</p><p>He snorted and patted your hand. “Calm down. You remember Tim and Steve.” He nodded to where they were seated like royalty on the balcony above the grand staircase, watching over the whole party. “And my mom’s here somewhere. She’ll protect you from the Liam Neeson-movie villains.”</p><p>A waiter in a tux floated over, and Bryan picked up two cocktail glasses from his tray.</p><p>“Drink. Relax,” he ordered, handing one to you. Something caught his eye behind you, and he downed the drink in one shot. “Fuck. I’m going to need it. This place is a goddamned minefield of my exes.” He set the empty glass back on the tray, taking another.</p><p>“<em>Bry-an!</em> As I live and breathe,” came a voice.</p><p>“Hey, Taylor,” he gave a tight-lipped smile and pulled you closer to him like a shield.</p><p>The first hour was like that—Bryan trying to look for his family, and getting stopped every few feet to awkwardly chat with someone he’d fucked and never called. Apparently, the annual New Year’s party was his hunting ground.</p><p>It made you glad this was your last night with him. Not because it made you jealous—the opposite, in fact. You were glad you would never resent Bryan when he inevitably brushed you off for someone else.</p><p>Your little affair had an end date. You’d shaken on it and were in agreement.</p><p>It made you feel like you were on the same team—that you understood each other. This time, you’d be ready for things to go back to normal on Monday. You’d be ready to leave Chicago for good, armed with the confidence Bryan had somehow inspired in you.</p><p>If you could handle Bryan Kneef, after all, you could handle New York City.</p><p>Finally, Bryan managed to embed himself in a group of business contacts, using them as a shield against passive-aggressive lovers. Their conversation was boring rich-boy’s-club stuff. Rounds of golf they’d played. Yachts they’d… yachted. You caught the eye of a woman hanging off another lawyer’s arm, looking equally bored. You smiled in commiseration at each other. “Are you also here as a fake date?” you almost asked, and giggled to yourself. Your eyes wandered around the room, taking in all the lavish decorations, the classical music played by a small chamber orchestra.</p><p>Your eyes wandered across a tuft of red hair, and you did a double-take, but it was already lost in the crowd. There was no way it was him, anyway.</p><p>Checking over his shoulders for exes waiting in ambush, Bryan worked his way up the curving flight of stairs toward the VIP lounge to greet Tim and his husband. The bouncer let Bryan past the velvet rope, cutting in front of a long line. Tim and Steve sat on a leather couch overlooking the ballroom below. There were chairs and couches where the inner circle of department chiefs relaxed, and they were surrounded by a small crowd of of supplicants—lower-ranking employees hoping for the opportunity to chat and curry favor with the CEO. Bryan pushed past them, dragging you along with him.</p><p>There was that red hair again, in the crowd. The face under it was turned three-fourths away from you—hadn’t seen you yet—but it was unmistakable now. Bryan tugged on your arm, grumbling about you falling behind. Before you could say anything, Bryan all but shoved the red-head out of the way.</p><p>“Hey. Nice party. Last year’s was better,” Bryan smirked.</p><p>Timothy rolled his eyes. “Bryan,” he said. He smiled at you. “Sy—”</p><p>“H-hey Tim! Nice to see you again!” You vigorously shook his hand, unnerving him with your enthusiasm.</p><p>“Right…” Tim said. “Bry, we can catch up later. I was just in the middle of a conversation with a new associate.”</p><p>Bryan turned to glance over the lanky, freckle-faced man he’d displaced. The man had taken a few steps back when Bryan barged in and was waiting politely, but now his brown eyes were locked on you. He took a step toward you, his smile waning, and he opened his mouth with the first syllable of your name.</p><p><em>“FRANCIS?”</em> you interrupted with the manic vigor of a dog greeting a soldier coming home from war. “What are you doing here? You work for LogicFinance now? What are the chances!” You laughed loud and hard and left him no space to get a word in edgewise. “Hey—mind if I steal you for a minute so we can talk privately?”</p><p>You weren’t asking. You grabbed the sleeve of Francis’s suit and dragged him from the VIP area on a mission.</p><p>Bryan followed on your heels. “Hey! What the hell was—”</p><p>“What was that about?” Francis asked you, still smiling cordially, but with an impatient twitch in his eye. “Please tell me this is not some jealous ploy to ruin my standing with this company. How did you even find out about my new job? How did you get in here? I thought we could both be adults about this.”</p><p>There was a look on your face Bryan had never seen on you before, and he didn’t like it. At all. Your eyes were cast downward, and you had no snappy comeback. Bryan growled. If anyone was going to make you look defeated, it was <em>him</em>.</p><p>“She’s with <em>me</em>, actually,” Bryan smirked, coming up behind you and sliding a hand around your waist. “This guy bothering you, sweetpea?”</p><p>“B-Bryan… this is my ex, Francis.” Your voice was meek.</p><p>“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Francis extended a hand.</p><p>Bryan leered at it contemptuously and didn’t take it. He kept his hands on your dress. “Bryan Kneef,” he said. “I hear you’re a dick.”</p><p>Francis’s eyes widened in shock. Then he frowned, shaking his head at you with disappointment. His eyes were practically brimming over with tears. “I hope you know I would never speak ill of you, even after the way things ended. I can’t believe you would be so spiteful.”</p><p>Bryan rolled his eyes. This guy’s life was obviously <em>so hard.</em> He waited for you to tear Francis a new asshole, but your reply was just a series of pathetic mumbles. You were sorry. You didn’t know he would be here, honest.</p><p>Where the fuck was the woman who pulled his beard and threatened to report him to HR if he didn’t fuck you hard enough? The woman who walked in on him masturbating and didn’t miss a beat before yelling at him for slacking at work? You were a filthy-mouthed bitch who never took shit from anyone, but you were rolling over and showing your belly to this… <em>ginger.</em></p><p>“Are you related to Mr. Kneef, the CEO?” Francis asked. His eyes were bright with boyish curiosity when he addressed Bryan. He was cute, too. Bryan bet he used that to his advantage.</p><p>“The same,” Bryan drawled. “We’ve got ourselves a fucking genius here.”</p><p>The corner of your lips twitched, almost into a smirk, so Bryan kept going.</p><p>“Must be a regular Sherlock putting that one together. What gave it away?” Bryan’s fingers danced on your stomach as Francis’s face went from starstruck to offended, and you started giggling.</p><p>Francis’s polite mask slipped, and he scowled openly at you and Bryan. “Well, Bryan—”</p><p>“Mr. Kneef, to you.”</p><p>“—I wish you luck. I sincerely hope she’s not just using you to get back at me.” He fixed you with a condescending stare. His voice softened, pleading, “Please treat Bryan better than you did me.”</p><p>He started to skulk away in a cloud of self-pity. Bryan had no idea what that was all about, but he knew he fucking hated this ginger and the way he drained your spirit.</p><p>“Oh, she treats me <em>very well</em>—don’t you, kitten?” he growled as suggestively as possible, loud enough to make Francis turn back over his shoulder. He kissed you deeply and passionately, lowering you into a dip as his tongue searched your mouth. You stiffened at first, but it didn’t take much of his strong arms wrapped around your body, holding you close and safe, before you forgot you were being watched, and curled your fingers around the back of his neck, kissing him back.</p><p>Neither of you even noticed when Francis marched away in a huff, retreating down the stairs to the ballroom.</p><p>When Bryan finally broke the kiss and set you back down on your feet, you were still too quiet.</p><p>“Good job getting him out of there before he blew your cover,” Bryan said, patting your shoulder. It was the best he had for comforting people. “Christ. Any more of <em>your</em> exes I should worry about?”</p><p>“Sorry…” You stared at the carpet.</p><p>He grabbed your face—his warm hand was big enough to cover the whole thing if he wanted—and made you look up at him. “Stop that. The fuck is wrong with you?”</p><p>You winced, and he realized <em>maybe</em> demanding you not be sad was not the right way to get you to stop being sad. Bryan thought about how his mom calmed him down when he was a kid, and he had a cold. Gently. The way you handle a puppy. Or a kitten. Soft words.</p><p>“Did that slimy piece of shit hurt you? Because I can make it so they never find the body.”</p><p>He tried his best.</p><p>“No. Not like you think.” You lifted your hand to his and slowly lowered it from your face, holding it between yours. Clinging to it. “Francis is… a good person. He just… he holds it against you if you’re not. I guess sometimes I’m not the most considerate person, you know?”</p><p>“Sounds like you’re confessing to a fucking crime,” Bryan rolled his eyes sarcastically. He felt your hand clench around his at that, a little spark of anger at last.</p><p>“That’s… exactly it. Every little fucking thing I’d do—every mistake, everything I did without running it by him first—was <em>selfish</em> or <em>rude</em>. He was so smug about what a good person he was and how shitty I was by comparison. Like—<em>he</em> would never get a haircut <em>I</em> didn’t like. And <em>he</em> would never take a job with such long hours, because <em>he</em> loved me. It took me a long time to realize how controlling he was. I honestly thought… I must be a terrible person.”</p><p>You met his eyes again, and he could see the fire burning behind them, trying to escape, but they were timid still. Terrified Bryan might confirm that you <em>were</em> horrible, and he didn’t like you anymore. Even though tonight was the last night you were going to be with him anyway.</p><p>“It was shitty of that guy to make you feel shitty. Nobody talks down to me like that, and I’ve done worse things than your innocent little heart can imagine.”</p><p>“…like whatever Memo 618 is?”</p><p>Bryan’s jaw clenched. He was not expecting that out of the blue. “Where did you hear that?”</p><p>“You can’t say ‘ass’ ten times in a recorded meeting with a senior partner and <em>not</em> have it circulate the entire office.”</p><p>He scowled. Fucking Diane Lockhart.</p><p>“Word of advice: don’t stick your nose places it doesn’t belong.”</p><p>His eyes were so cold it frightened you, just like your first day at STR Laurie. Back when Mr. Kneef seemed untouchable and dangerous, and you cared too much about making a good impression and not getting fired. Then he glanced at you with worry, and you realized what he said wasn’t a threat. And that was even more terrifying. It meant he was wrapped up in something so nefarious he didn’t want you getting involved.</p><p>“You’re a better person than I am, for what little that’s worth.”</p><p>“I know,” you smirked. “Thanks.”</p><p>You looped your arm back through his elbow, when a familiar voice from behind rose above the din of the crowd.</p><p>“Hey, you two,” Tim tapped Bryan on the shoulder. “You’re reserved for dinner this hour, too. Next to mom and me. Everything alright?” His eyes lingered on you as he asked.</p><p>“What’s the point of dinner this late?” Bryan griped.</p><p>“Everyone will be up past midnight tonight. Do you want to starve?”</p><p>Somehow, the brothers ended up going back and forth in increasingly childish banter until Steve took Tim’s arm, you took Bryan’s, and they went ahead downstairs without you.</p><p>Bryan groaned at the thought of dinner. Family obligation was the only reason he came to this party, but then he’d have to hear all about how well Tim’s company was doing. How adorable his kids were. How perfect his brother’s entire life was.</p><p>Why the fuck was it that Bryan had all the cutthroat instinct, but Tim was the one who had achieved everything? Work <em>and</em> family. Like it was easy.</p><p>“Do we need to… get out of here?”</p><p>“Huh?” Bryan looked down at you. You were tugging the tight, shimmery fabric of your dress, fidgeting with it, and not meeting his eyes.</p><p>“What if Francis is there at dinner? Fuck—he might have already said something to your brother if he thinks I’m plotting something. I’m sorry. I fucked up your whole plan.”</p><p>Obviously, you’d seen his hesitation and blamed yourself. Idiot.</p><p>“There’s only one solution. We have to kill your ex.”</p><p>Your eyes bulged. “What?!”</p><p>Bryan laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. You actually believed him for him a second. Now your little scowl was so cute he wanted to scoop you into his arms and take you against a wall right in front of all of those guests.</p><p>“Let me worry about my own secrets. But if it’s that important to you, I can tell Tim that Francis is crazy and he threatened you. Get that fuck thrown out and fired.”</p><p>That one he was serious about, and you grinned spitefully at the thought. The idea that you held that sanctimonious jerk’s fate in your hands was too delicious.</p><p>“Tempting. But you can’t destroy my ex’s career. That’s just... evil.”</p><p>“Evil. Good,” Bryan scoffed. “No such thing. Just winning and losing. What, did you get that morality crap from Mr. High-and-Mighty? Our Lord and Savior, Ginger Christ?”</p><p>You laughed, a real, from-the-diaphragm laugh.</p><p>Completely unbidden, you were suddenly in front of him, arms around the back of his shoulders, lips pressing tenderly, almost chaste, to his.</p><p>“You know, sometimes you’re not an asshole.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck me. Don’t say that. I’ve got a reputation to keep.”</p><p>Laughing, you kissed him again, savoring not just the taste of the cocktail on his lips or the smell of his cologne, but the way his hands rode up to brace your back, keeping you steady. The way he could be so strangely gentle. Despite everything… he made you feel safe.</p><p>Arm in arm, you made your way to the dining room. Finally, you caught a glimpse of Bryan’s silver-haired mother, sitting next to Tim. She looked up and waved to you, but Bryan froze. A gorgeous woman in her mid-thirties let her fur shawl fall off her bare shoulders. Her hips swung like a pendulum as he crossed the dining room toward Bryan.</p><p>“Fuck,” he muttered.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“… It’s Sydney.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Sydney</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And just like that, you were running.</p><p>Not running-running, of course—this was a sophisticated party with tuxedos and gowns and expensive champagne—but certainly <em>fleeing.</em> Bryan took one look at Sydney and froze, as if all the air had gone out of the room. Then at his mother and brother, seated at a dining table not twenty feet away, watching the scene unfold. Tim was already rolling his eyes, correctly assuming the woman slinking toward Bryan was another of his exes, and Martha was frowning tightly, biting her lip at the impending drama.</p><p>And then Bryan grabbed your hand, turned on his heel, and you were being dragged back out into the main ballroom at a determined clip.</p><p>For once, Bryan could thank his reputation as a slut, because this didn’t strike anyone as out of character behavior.</p><p>You were glad to be out of there. The entire situation was a powderkeg, and Sydney made you uneasy in a way you couldn’t put your finger on.</p><p>“Why is she here? What do we do?” you hissed anxiously, half-jogging to keep up with his long strides. His face was stony. It was then you realized that for a man who confronts most problems in much the way a bull does—with horns first—he must have been extremely agitated to run. “Are you OK?” you asked more softly.</p><p>He cringed that you noticed but didn’t break stride. Party guests and waiters dodged out of his way until he had finally put enough distance between himself and the dining hall that he was sure he couldn’t be followed, and you slammed into his back like a brick wall.</p><p>“Fuck!” Bryan seethed. “Her name was on the guest list. Sydney wanted her own invitation so we could arrive separately, and I never took her off it. I didn’t think she’d show up. Bitch! What is she thinking?”</p><p>He wasn’t really talking to you, or to the passing waiter from whom he grabbed another cocktail and swallowed it in one gulp. You’d never seen anything get under his skin like this.</p><p>“Do you want to just go home?” you suggested, patting his arm. “Maybe she just came for the party and didn’t think she’d run into you.”</p><p>“You don’t know Syd. This is fucking trouble.”</p><p>“She’s never seen your parents, though. Do you think she would find them and try to stir shit up if we just hightail out of here?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” he fixed you with a hard glare, “but something might come up when she’s seated next to my mother for her <em>dinner reservation.</em>”</p><p>“Oh shi—”</p><p>
  <em>“Motherfuckingsonofabitch!”</em>
</p><p>A few well-dressed guests turned their heads (to a politely discreet degree) toward the potential source of gossip. By the smug little smiles barely turning their lips, you had the feeling Bryan had already warranted his name being circulated as a topic of disgrace.</p><p>“Well,” you shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll laugh about this someday.”</p><p>Bryan <em>snarled.</em> “No. The whole point of you being here was to avoid embarrassing me. If they find out I lied about you being Syd, that is worse than finding out I got dumped. What kind of loser does something like that?”</p><p>You stared, glad he said it, not you.</p><p>“Bryan Kneef does <em>not</em> lose.”</p><p>“Alright. Then we have to get her to leave before sitting down to dinner, if she hasn’t already.”</p><p>“Genius idea,” Bryan sneered. “Love the details.”</p><p>“Don’t get fresh. Bastard.” You squeezed his arm pleasantly, and a hint of a smile tickled his lip. “Maybe you could fuck her?” you suggested.</p><p>His head swung to face you, brow raised, impressed with your chutzpah. “Maybe.”</p><p>It would get her out of there, and a nagging part of him missed her. But he noticed a frown in your eyes, at the edge of the chummy, buddy-buddy front you were putting on. You acted like he didn’t mean anything to you, but you jealous because he didn’t shoot down your suggestion.</p><p>He grinned.</p><p>“But I promised I’d be taking my payback from you tonight. Would be a shame to waste it.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sydney was still waiting outside the grand dining hall’s antique mahogany double doors, scanning the crowd for Bryan while trying to look casual about it. As if she were just people-watching. Your stomach flipped uneasily as you approached.</p><p>“Hey, Syd,” Bryan said, his hands shoved in his pockets.</p><p>Even with you hanging onto one of his arms, even knowing the plan was to get her out of the way, his whole demeanor was subdued when he spoke to her. His voice was unfamiliar. Higher.</p><p>“Bryan.” Her voice was smooth and melodious, a faint smile turning one of her plush lips. Her voice lost its musical quality as her large, long-lashed eyes fell on you. “And this is…?”</p><p>Her gaze was sharp enough to cut you as it slashed disapprovingly up and down your shimmery silver dress, the wine glass in your hand, diamond necklace. Despite the disguise, she could tell you didn’t belong in this strata of society. You might as well have been naked.</p><p>Sydney looked like she belonged here, poured into an elegant blue gown that hugged her curves and ample bosom. You could see what Bryan liked about her. A pure white fur shawl was shrugged over her bare shoulders, low enough not to obstruct the full view of her sweeping neck.</p><p>“Bryan’s <em>girlfriend,</em>” you said with as much confidence as you could muster. You felt like an alleycat hissing at a tiger.</p><p>Sydney showed no response, but her smile tightened slightly. “How cute. Why don’t you fetch us some drinks, dear.”</p><p>“Why don’t you leave us alone? He’s moved on.”</p><p>She gave a short, nasal puff of laughter and an unreadable but dangerous look on her face as her eyes lingered over you.</p><p>“What are you doing here? You come to make a scene?” Bryan cocked an eyebrow.</p><p>The faint smile on her lips turned to a pout that almost fooled you into believing it was genuine. She stepped into Bryan’s space, and lacy fingers tipped with long manicured nails straightened his black tie. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Her elbow was in your face.</p><p>“I thought you would miss me, baby. I wanted to give you another chance…”</p><p>Bryan’s nostrils twitched and flared, and he took half a step back out of her grip.</p><p>“Another chance? You broke up with me! On Christmas!” His voice rose, but he didn’t swear like he would have if it were you (or anyone else) he were talking to.</p><p>“I never said we were breaking up; I said I wasn’t coming to dinner.” Her slender arms crossed over her chest, and she began to frown now, getting to her point. “How could I have broken up with you when you never admitted we were dating? I thought this would be a wake-up call. I was giving you an opportunity to chase after me.”</p><p>Bryan was stunned speechless.</p><p>You wanted to back him up and tell her that was a stupid, manipulative thing to do, but this wasn’t part of the plan. Bryan hadn’t considered the possibility that she would want to reconcile. Now that the genuine Sydney was within his reach, his priorities might have changed. You were always just a placeholder, after all.</p><p>“How… was I supposed to know that?”</p><p>“You’re a grown man. You should know when a woman is trying to get your attention… when she wants you to take the next step in a relationship. I shouldn’t be surprised you showed up with some floozy on your arm,” Sydney sighed wearily. “You never were any good at tests. But maybe you passed in your own way.” That dangerous look was back as she stepped closer to him, her white fur shawl pressing against his black tuxedo. Her floral perfume was overwhelming. “I wanted to see how much you would miss me, and”—she looked down her nose at you—“apparently you missed me so much, you went out and found a cheap knockoff.”</p><p>Your cheeks burned like fire.</p><p>That was what made you so uneasy. Sydney looked like you. Not exactly like you, of course—she was taller, more slender and elegant, her makeup flawless. You lacked her beauty and grace. Her incomparable aesthetics as a designer. But she had the same basic hair color, eye color, and skin tone. There was some resemblance, and suddenly the clatter of plates and clink of champagne flutes around you were muted as the entire ballroom became a vacuum.</p><p>You were a cheap knockoff.</p><p>“Can you please get rid of her already so we can talk?” Sydney pouted, her long fingers curling over his broad shoulders. A faint blush crept up the side of his neck, and his eyes flitted down to her lips, within kissing distance of his.</p><p>Despite somewhat bonding today, you still expected Bryan to drop you like a hot rock at any moment, just like he did after Christmas. You were prepared for that, keeping in perspective exactly what your relationship with him was—nothing. You wouldn’t allow him to sting you again when he inevitably forgot you existed.</p><p>And yet, you were always a little bit proud that he picked you to pretend to be his girlfriend. Because you were the bold one who barged into his office when he happened to think of the scheme. Because he knew you had guts and could pull it off.</p><p>But you mattered even less than that. You just happened to <em>look like her.</em></p><p>He told you, in those exact words, that you were just a replacement. You shouldn’t have been humiliated that he could squint and imagine you were his ex while he fucked you. You <em>wanted</em> to feel used. You wanted him to take you hard and fast and mean. You hated him. Why were you upset now?</p><p>Maybe what hurt was the comparison. Sydney ran her own interior design business. She was in control of her life—a goddess who belonged at this party. You were just… a paralegal out of your depth. Clinging to your boss’s arm like a life preserver. And he was about to jettison you to the waves like trash.</p><p>But he didn’t.</p><p>Bryan took a sharp step back, and you let his arm slip through your fingers. His eyes flashed at you with a frustrated scowl as he grabbed your arm back and pulled you to him a little too roughly. It was Sydney he was backing away from.</p><p>“Sorry, doll. Bryan Kneef does not come crawling back.” He stood a little taller, his voice regaining the familiar abrasiveness he used in court. “If you wanted my attention, you shouldn’t have pissed me off.”</p><p>“I didn’t know how else to get a response out of you!” Syd’s smooth voice rose and cracked.</p><p>As her mask slipped, you realized that this was genuinely hard on her.</p><p>Three months with a man who bristled at showing weakness—so much so that he would only say he was “pissed off” about her dumping him, despite the obvious pain it caused him. A man so emotionally stunted, his highest praise for the woman he was suffering over was that she “wasn’t clingy.” A man who replaced her immediately with another lay and fucked away his feelings.</p><p>You couldn’t imagine three months in a relationship like that.</p><p>“You could have tried a blowjob,” Bryan taunted. His lips drew into a frown. “Or you could have talked to me. I don’t know what you fucking want. You never tell me. Except the rocks you want me to buy.”</p><p>Her eyes caught the glinting around your neck as one of Bryan’s firm hands squeezed your shoulder.</p><p>“You got me the Tiffany?” her eyes widened with greed.</p><p>Bryan clicked his tongue. “Nope. You missed out.”</p><p>“That’s not funny, Bryan. Those are <em>my</em> diamonds. I earned them.”</p><p>“Hot tip: if you want presents, wait until after you get them to break up with me.”</p><p>“You can’t give them to some nobody!”</p><p>Your sympathy for Sydney was quickly waning.</p><p>“I can. And I did,” Bryan grinned victoriously, his hand clamping your shoulder. “And she doesn’t even fucking <em>want them!</em>” His chest heaved on the verge of laughter, and his grin widened, all arrogance and rows of white teeth.</p><p>“If she doesn’t appreciate what you have to offer, come back to me,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to recover her seductive velvety tone. “I <em>always</em> appreciate you. Just show me how much you missed me, and we can forget the last week. We’ll have a lovely dinner with your family, right now. It’s only a week late. Nothing has changed. I can even forgive your little infidelity, now that you’ve seen what life is like without me.”</p><p>“You know what, Syd?” he spat her name like venom, “I have seen what life is like without you. And seeing you here again, I don’t know what the fucking fuss was about. I got sentimental because you stayed the night sometimes and made coffee? That’s not special. It’s <em>basic human kindness.</em> This fucking little nobody here is better to me, and she doesn’t even <em>like</em> me, do you, sweetheart?”</p><p>All you had time to do was raise your stunned eyebrows at him before he was ranting again.</p><p>“But what do I expect? The women I date are shallow idiots.” He gave a long, pointed stare at Sydney and raised his voice so he would be heard over the music and the hum of the crowd. “I am talking about you. You are a shallow idiot.”</p><p>More politely discreet guests checked out the outburst, surreptitiously keeping the unfolding drama in their peripheral vision. Sydney was aware of it, usually on the other side of the grapevine, and she burned with scandal.</p><p>Bryan kept his voice booming and taunting as a schoolyard bully. “Guess what? I’m with this nobody now, and I’m <em>happy.</em>”</p><p>“People are staring. Lower your voice,” Sydney hissed.</p><p>“If you don’t want a scene, go home,” Bryan sneered.</p><p>Checkmate.</p><p>Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You think your new tramp is going to take my place at the table, and you can have a pleasant dinner with the family, no consequences?”</p><p>Or not.</p><p>“I’m not going away just to make your life less awkward.” Sydney was terrifying now. The evening had not gone the way she hoped—with a miserable, lonely Bryan and his money crawling back, willing to make any promise, take her on any vacation, buy her that necklace she didn’t think he remembered. It was clear that wasn’t going to happen, thanks to you.</p><p>The melodic seductiveness left her voice, and all that remained was cold venom. “You can’t stop me from enjoying my New Year’s, so you can just sit there and explain to your mother how you left <em>me</em> for… <em>her</em>.”</p><p>She addressed you like a worm. A comparison you could barely disagree with (physically, anyway). But you could thank her for the perfect set up.</p><p>“You bitch!” you screeched and threw your drink at her.</p><p>Red wine splattered over her white fur, but you didn’t have time to make a taunting comment about how she looked like a candy cane now—a little holiday decorating—before her hand lashed out across your face hard enough to make your vision blur.</p><p>That was not part of the plan.</p><p>Plan A, of course, was for Bryan to talk to her like an adult. For her to see he was with someone, and leave. Amicably. But since when was Bryan amicable?</p><p>Plan B was as inevitable as a runaway freight train careening toward a stack of watermelons piled on the tracks while a drunken Santa Claus shoveled more coal into the furnace. Make such an embarrassing scene that she runs away.</p><p>You had even found a glass of red wine instead of the ubiquitous champagne specifically for this turn of events.</p><p>What had not been planned for were Syd’s quick reflexes, or that she had had precisely the right number of drinks and had been fuming with just enough rage to explode. Your ear was still ringing from the slap when—instead of running in search of club soda—Sydney grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked, screaming, “cheap slut!” Though you were taken by surprise and had never fought anyone in your life, your blood boiled. It must have been some primal instinct, but as she shrieked about you being a homewrecker, you grabbed her dainty hand, pushed it against your scalp to stop her yanking out your roots, and barreled into the direction she was pulling—towards her—adding to the momentum. You headbutted her in the gut and you both toppled over on the floor, Sydney clawing at your hair, cursing you, and grabbing for the necklace while you fended her off.</p><p>The fight only lasted a few seconds before security was on top of you—or on top of Sydney, rather. Bryan’s arms were the ones that pulled you up, and he gripped you protectively, making it clear to the bouncer that Sydney was the aggressor. She tried to shrug away the burly man and gave an offended huff when he didn’t release her.</p><p>“Stay away from us, or I will have you paying off emotional damages for the rest of your life,” Bryan warned, genuinely alarmed—and you suspected just a little bit aroused—by what transpired. “It’s over, Sydney!”</p><p>Classical music from the orchestra maintained the party’s upscale atmosphere, though conversation in the ballroom had temporarily hushed as all eyes turned toward the episode of <em>Jerry Springer</em> unfolding. Francis was the first spectator to approach, and when you explained in a high, pitiful whine what had happened, the first to take Sydney’s side. You and Bryan exchanged conspiratorial looks when Francis convinced the bouncer to let him escort her out with dignity.</p><p>“Did you just convince your ex to fuck my ex?” Bryan whispered, marveling at your deviousness.</p><p>“God, I only hope so,” you beamed. Your heart was pounding in your ears, but the adrenaline felt amazing. Bryan, too, for how tightly he was holding you, seemed more exhilarated than anything.</p><p>You pulled it off. It was foolish to begin with, went incredibly sideways, and would be the gossip of Chicago’s corporate elite until next year. But Bryan Kneef having a disgruntled ex-lover was hardly breaking news. The important thing was, your cover was intact, and no one would ever know he sank to the pathetic low of replacing his ex-girlfriend with an impostor.</p><p>Then the double-doors swung open, and his mother and brother emerged from the dining area.</p><p>“What is going on?” Martha cried, eyes scanning the scene. “It sounded like fighting.” She could tell your hair was disheveled and rushed to you, nurse’s instinct kicking in as she checked you over for injuries.</p><p>Security approached Tim. You couldn’t make out what the bouncer was saying with his back to you, but Tim’s frown deepened with every passing second of the debriefing. It turned into a full-fledged disappointed-older-brother look directed at Bryan.</p><p>“Jesus, Bry. You broke up with Sydney?”</p><p>“Yes. I did,” he answered.</p><p>Martha’s eyes widened, darting between you and her son before settling back on you filled with sympathy. “Oh, Syd, I’m so sorry.” She pulled you into a hug. “But the two of you seemed so happy together.”</p><p>“I told you to keep your relationship drama away from my business. This is a new low.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you were anyone else, I would have security remove you.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’re blaming the victim. I can’t control my disgruntled exes. ”</p><p>His mother slapped Bryan on the arm. “How could you break up with the <em>one</em> nice girl you’ve brought home!” She was still holding your shoulders, half-hugging you like she’d already adopted you as a new daughter. “Won’t you stay for dinner? Maybe you can patch things up. Or we’ll send <em>Bryan</em> away.” She glared at her monster of a son, but you could tell there was motherly affection in the way she chided him.</p><p>Tim didn’t correct her for calling you Sydney. Bryan caught it, too. Your eyes met. You raised your brow at him—a silent, “Well? It’s your secret. How do you want to play this?”</p><p>His jaw set, eyes sharp. He brushed past his brother and snatched you from his mother’s grasp.</p><p>“I’m going to drive Syd home. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do. Sorry for the trouble, ma.” Bryan’s gruff voice softened on the last one. He bent to kiss her cheek before turning on his heel and striding away, dragging you in tow before anyone started asking clarifying questions about exactly which woman Bryan had shouted “It’s over” to and which one was named Sydney.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Happy New Year!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bryan didn’t slow down until he had exited the ballroom and the party, but to your surprise, he didn’t lead you out to the valet area to drive you home. Instead, you got into an elevator and rode it up.</p><p>In the privacy of the closed space, he relaxed, leaning back against the wall. For a handful of floors, it seemed the entire elevator ride was going to pass in silence, with Bryan giving a faraway, contemplative stare to a peeling corner of wood veneer. Then his head turned, and he appraised your disheveled state, hair out of place, and a few angry scratch marks from Sydney’s long manicured nails.</p><p>He ruffled your hair with a grin.</p><p>“You can fight.”</p><p>You snorted. “Not really.”</p><p>“She didn’t know what hit her. Should’ve seen her face when she went down.”</p><p>“You said she’d run straight for the bathroom. She’d be too embarrassed to be seen in public with a stained dress. She didn’t seem all that shy to me.” You glared.</p><p>He shrugged, his amusement disappearing. “I didn’t know her very well.”</p><p>For some reason that couldn’t possibly have been pity—because it was his own fault for being a neglectful asshole boyfriend—it made you squeeze his hand. When he made that vague, sad expression, like he didn’t even recognize his own loneliness, you knew there was a heart under there, somewhere. So rusted from disuse, he hadn’t the slightest notion how to get it to work, but a heart. It made you ache for him, just a little.</p><p>“If you weren’t here, I might have slept with her,” Bryan grumbled.</p><p>“Sorry to ruin your night.”</p><p>“I’m saying thank you.”</p><p>“Oh.” The knot in your stomach unwound. “You’re welcome.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The hotel ballroom was set in a large, expansive atrium that gave it a grandiose, open-air feel. Rows of balcony walkways with rooms overlooking the party wrapped around the outside of the atrium space—and Bryan had rented one such of these rooms.</p><p>“This was always the plan,” he said, sliding in the keycard. “I want to fuck you at midnight. Now we have more time to play than anticipated… but that’s not a bad thing.”</p><p>“We never got to eat, though…”</p><p>“If you’re hungry, I’ve got something for you,” he growled, suggestively grabbing the front of his pants as he backed through the door.</p><p>You barely noticed, gaping at the luxury suite. Most hotel rooms, in your experience, were just a room with a bed in the middle. This one had an entire living room, an area for dining, and a fucking <em>chandelier</em>. There were already champagne flutes and a bottle on ice set out on the coffee table, in the middle of the chairs and couches, as if the room were waiting on a more intimate New Year’s gathering to arrive.</p><p>Bryan smirked at your look of wonder. If this impressed you, wait until you saw his condo.</p><p>He wasted no time now that he had you alone. Wrapping his arms around you from behind before you could even kick your uncomfortable-but-glamorous shoes off, his beard scratched your neck as he marked you up with his teeth. You felt his erection pressed forcefully against your ass.</p><p>His cologne, clean and bright, intoxicated you as your body jolted with the pleasure and pain he doled out. A sensible fragment of you that was still awake yelped in protest, turning in his arms to face him.</p><p>“Bryan! If you leave marks that high up, I’ll have to wear a scarf again.”</p><p>“Then wear a scarf,” he commanded, leaving no room for argument before launching a frontal assault on your throat.</p><p><em>“Ahh,”</em> you moaned. You meant to say, “Asshole.”</p><p>“I can’t wait to feel all of you,” he whispered hungrily, giving your earlobe a sharp nip. “to see my cum drip out of you…”</p><p>You shivered, throat too thick to make a snarky reply. It was too late for that. Bryan felt the change in you, too—the way your body responded to him like an animal in heat. You belonged to him now.</p><p>On the drive over in his sporty BMW, you’d had the chance to discuss at least a few points of safety and consent, since you both liked it rough. There was a fine line between being dominated and humiliated because it turned you on, and… well, Bryan wanted to be sure he wasn’t stepping over any lines. He had to cover his own ass legally, you see. At the point in the conversation when you again insisted upon condom usage, Bryan smugly presented you with a folded piece of paper. Negative test results for all the big important STIs, dated the day after Christmas. After sarcastically asking if he wanted to get it framed, you gave in.</p><p>Bryan was keyed up as he unzipped the back of your skin-tight silver dress. Not just from the drama of the evening or the unexpected catfight (which he would have to watch more of, with less clothing). It was, for lack of a better word, clarity.</p><p>His feelings for Sydney were a mire he’d gotten caught in. He never cared about anybody, so nobody could ever hurt him. Not deeply. Sydney included. But something about spending three months with the same partner surprised him—tugged on a primal nesting instinct. There was something nice about not needing to seduce someone new when he wanted to fuck. To not have to learn a new partner’s quirks. Find out if they were any good in bed. It was comfortable having someone he could just call.</p><p>Maybe he was getting old.</p><p>He didn’t want it to end, that comfortable familiarity. The feeling that he wasn’t in this world alone.</p><p>But that had nothing to do with Sydney at all. He could have that with anyone if he stayed long enough.</p><p>Your dress fell to the floor at your ankles with your panties.</p><p>He admired your naked shoulders as he removed his tie and his tuxedo jacket. You turned to face him, and he saw a hunger to match his own reflected in your eyes. You leaned in, letting your bare chest melt against his shirt, and captured his lips. You started it as a small, soft kiss, but as soon as Bryan had you, his mouth turned fierce and bullying, controlling and deepening it. His tongue assaulted the entrance of your mouth until you submitted, helpless against the shivers of pleasure he awakened in you and all too eager to let him take his fill. And yet you were holding back, he could tell.</p><p>As he broke the kiss—your lips softly parted as you caught your breath—there was hesitation in your eyes. Which he’d never seen by the time it got to this stage. Sure, you always complained and called him an asshole and said you’d never touch him, but the moment his lips were pressed against you, you were always all-in.</p><p>“What?” he asked, softer than he’d meant to.</p><p>“Are you thinking about Sydney when we’re together?”</p><p>He laughed, a surprised snort first, and then it rolled into a mocking chuckle. “Jealous?”</p><p>You rolled your eyes, but your face revealed everything. You were terrible at hiding your emotions. He backed you up until you hit the edge of the couch cushion, and he pushed you down onto it. Growling deep and possessively, he crawled on top of you, straddling your legs, and lowered his mouth to your chest. “You’re the one that I want…” He sucked the heat of your soft skin. “You.” He growled your name before taking a breast in his mouth, circling the nipple until it hardened under his tongue, and savored the way you gasped and writhed like it was your first damned time. There was never any pretense with the noises you made—no playing it cool, holding back. No faking like a pornstar. His fingers replaced his tongue as he kissed his way to your other breast, repeating your name over and over in a lustful growl that made your skin warm under his lips.</p><p>Without warning, he slid off the couch, knelt in front of it, and hefted your legs up. You gasped with surprise as your back hit the bottom cushion, knees draped over Bryan’s shoulders, and the flat of his tongue took a long, savoring taste of your aching heat.</p><p>He let out a lewd moan, like you were a rare delicacy. “Already drenched for me? Haven’t you had enough yet?”</p><p>“No… Never enough of you,” you tightened your thighs, inching the throb between your legs closer to his skilled tongue.</p><p>“This is your third time today. You’re an insatiable little whore…”</p><p>“I’ll admit, you’re good at this.” You smirked up at him, face warm with the blood running to it. “Now, let me feel your beard between my thighs.”</p><p>Bryan couldn’t argue with a demand like that. He gripped your hips harder and lowered his face to your wetness. He moved his head side to side, soaking himself making sure you felt his beard everywhere. Every moan and jolt of your body sent shocks of arousal to his own clothed sex, now throbbing against the fabric to be free. To be where his tongue was buried, deep in your cunt.</p><p>And fuck, you tasted good.</p><p>Every innocently lustful noise you made nearly made him come in his pants. He was almost so distracted by the pleasure of tracing your folds, sucking harder to draw out a whimpering cry, that he almost let you climax. Your whole body went rigid, thighs clamping around his neck.</p><p>You were your own undoing, snapping him out of his lustful trace by crying, “Oh god, I’m close—I, I’m gonna—”</p><p>But you didn’t come. Because as soon as the words escaped your lips, Bryan pulled back. Dropped you, in fact, with very little consideration, just to kill all stimulation.</p><p>You cried out in frustration. Then confusion. Then you were <em>angry</em>.</p><p>“If you—if you’re going to run off again like Christmas day and leave me, I swear—”</p><p>His lips crashed hard against yours—too rough even to feel good—all teeth clicking and his tongue shoving its way down your throat. But it shut you up. And you didn’t try to pull away. In fact, you tried to match his pace, your tongue pushing back against his, fighting for control, your fingers curling into his hair to pull him even deeper, harder, and ultimately letting him win, melting into his demanding mouth. God, you were something.</p><p>“We have a lot of time to kill until midnight. You’re going to wait until then. The first thing you’re going to do in the new year is come on this cock.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“I’ve been so generous today. You owe me.”</p><p>Your whining grumbling stopped as he unbuckled his belt, freeing his massive erection. It sprang out impatient and red, and he stroked it a few times, pulling the foreskin back. He watched with pleasure as your eyes grew large, hungry, and just a hint intimidated by his size.</p><p>He ordered you to lay at the edge of the couch, your head hanging off it. You obediently got into the position, looking up at him upside down as he lowered his swollen cockhead to your lips, unbuttoning his shirt as he did.</p><p>“Open,” he said, and slid his cock over your expectant tongue, hissing as it swirled around the head and the veins of his shaft as he fucked into your warm throat and you eagerly swallowed him. “Good. That’s good,” he sighed.</p><p>A light touch of his hand in your hair was the only warning he gave before setting a punishing pace that had you gagging on his girth as he filled you completely. He slowed a little, controlling his thrusts just enough to take the edge off, remembering how you’d panicked and needed to stop last time. Inexperienced. At least with cocks his size, and the way he used it. But you loved it, moaning around him greedily—he could feel the vibrations through his length.</p><p>“You love being my sex toy, don’t you?” he asked, smoothing the rhythm of his hips.</p><p>A noise of assent rose from where you were buried beneath his balls, your pleasure clear in its garbled, gurgling notes. As if to confirm it, your fingers slid between your parted thighs and rubbed your clit as he fucked your face. Your choked, wet moans grew more frequent as your fingers worked, your hips writhing with them.</p><p>As much as he enjoyed the show, he pulled out of your mouth and grabbed your wrists sternly.</p><p>“No touching.”</p><p>You panted, catching your breath, swallowing the excess saliva—it was running down your chin, and tears were streaking your eyes. But you still managed to whine, bratty and needy as ever. It spurred him on.</p><p>Whipping the leather belt out of his pants, he used it to tie your arms together, neatly folded behind your back.</p><p>“When you come, it will be me that makes you come”—he tore off his white shirt—“You don’t get to come until I say you do. Understood?” He gave you a stern look, and you returned it with an excited, wild gleam in your eyes.</p><p>“But that’s not for another hour,” you whined, somewhere between genuine distress and goading him.</p><p>“Impatient brat.” He shoved you—just hard enough to get the idea, not to hurt—to your knees and grabbed the hair at the back of your head, forcing you to look up at him.</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Kneef.”</p><p>He smiled. “I’ll be ready to go again when it’s your turn. Right now, you want daddy’s come, don’t you?”</p><p>“Yes,” you gasped excitedly. Like you really, really did and weren’t just acting to stroke his ego. You never wanted anything else in return for “sexual favors,” as many of his exes called it. This <em>was</em> your reward.</p><p>There was that warm feeling in his chest again as he pushed your head down onto his full length, watching himself disappear into your willing mouth. He pumped his hips forward, and your eyes squeezed closed, watering as he hit the back of your throat.</p><p>“Hey,” he tapped your cheek with his heavy cock, leaving a streak of saliva there. “Eyes open. Look at me.”</p><p>You opened them again, and he felt a surge of electricity as they met his. You were beautiful—so sloppy and depraved, but beautiful still. Not that he would say sappy shit like that out loud. It was incredible seeing you—stubborn, difficult, sharp-tongued <em>you</em>—so willing, wanting it. Wanting him.</p><p>You kept your eyes on him as his fingers gripped your hair, controlling your head as he pushed you up and down his shaft. He began at a steady rhythm, but his arousal grew quickly, boiling like a furnace low in his body, and he began to lose control, moving his hips to meet the arc of your head back and forth at its apex, ramming erratically into your warm mouth. Your cheeks were hollowed as you sucked his cock, so willing and submissive.</p><p>“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” slipped out amid his grunts of effort.</p><p>He was panting hard and hoped that meant you didn’t hear it. But you made a satisfied little groan, and broke off eye contact, tipping your head down to pleasure him even more enthusiastically, almost outpacing his own demanding efforts until something in him snapped. He buried his fingers in your hair and moaned as his hot essence coated the back of your throat. You almost coughed, choking on it, but kept sucking, your throat muscles working.</p><p>“That’s right, you swallow every drop. Good. Good girl,” he panted.</p><p>You kept sucking and licking his cock, surrounding it with your warmth until his convulsions ceased, and you emptied him of every salty drop. And then you kept on sucking, making his overstimulated cock jerk in your mouth. He pulled you off him and watched, fascinated, as you licked your swollen lips.</p><p>“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he growled darkly. “Such a needy little slut.” He stroked your hair, almost tenderly. “That’s good. Daddy likes sluts.”</p><p>You got up from your knees, surprisingly graceful with your hands bound behind your back, and did something that surprised him. You rocked forward on your toes. Pressing your chest to his, laying your face against his shoulder, you just… rested there. He was still breathing hard, recovering, and you sensed he needed a moment to pause. Maybe you needed one, too. So you just leaned against him like that, sighing softly.</p><p>Then he did something that surprised himself. His hand went up to your arm, and his other hand found the small of your back, and they began moving in light circles.</p><p>“You did so good”—he kissed your hair—“You’re not tired, are you?”</p><p>“No,” you murmured into his neck.</p><p>“Good. Bedroom.”</p><p>There were still fifty minutes to midnight.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He gripped you by the belt and led you to the bed, laying you down. The large, king-size bed came with a mountain of pillows piled halfway up the headboard. He put one of them under your head, making sure you were comfortable before climbing between your thighs, spreading your knees apart, and bringing his face back to your heat.</p><p>You were drenched, even more than before, your arousal dripping down your thighs, pussylips swollen with desire. His long fingers toyed with them, spreading them open, but not touching where you <em>really</em> wanted him to touch. Where you <em>needed</em> it. He was just observing.</p><p>“Sucking cock really makes you wet,” he said, a finger dipping into your moisture.</p><p>You squirmed beneath his intimate gaze. Almost uncomfortably intimate. Being fucked was one thing, but having him stare so deeply at you with those intense green eyes covered your whole body with goosebumps.</p><p>Still, you admitted, “Getting you off turns me on.”</p><p>Something in his chest leaped, and he had to quash it down.</p><p>This was such a different side of you, in bed. As an employee, you had grown into a thorn in his side—always the one stirring up discontent with his other subordinates. Calling the workloads he gave them “unreasonable” and “twice any other department with no commensurate pay increase.”</p><p>It made him want to tie you up and fuck you into submission. He never figured you’d want that, too.</p><p>You really fucking hated him as your boss. He wondered if you were seeing a different side of him right now. One you didn’t hate.</p><p>He dipped his tongue between your spread pussylips and tasted you—but barely.</p><p>“Need… more,” you begged, but he wouldn’t give you more.</p><p>His thumb circled over your opening and pressed inside, but only to the first joint.</p><p>“Please, I need more…”</p><p>No matter how you whined or bucked your hips, he gave no more than the lightest pressure. He held your hips down to still their movement so you couldn’t add to your own stimulation—it was only him in control of your torture.</p><p>And for nearly an hour, he tortured you with soft, painfully slow, breathy licks, his tongue barely ghosting over your clit. Every now and then, he would suddenly take your swollen bud between his lips and suck, stroking it with hard laps of his tongue, plunging his fingers deeper inside your pussy, pumping them, bringing you up and up, right up to the edge—delighting in your desperate gasps, your pleading for him to let you come this time as your back arched off the mattress—and then letting you fall again, the peak disappearing below the horizon. He delighted even more in your hoarse sobs of frustration every time you lost it. In the way you tried to rub your thighs together, and the way his strong hands held them apart to deny you even that.</p><p>Only when your breathing had calmed, and he was sure you were no longer close did he resume his teasing. Each time, your cries were more urgent and built faster. Each time he brought you to the edge and back, your frustration grew to near panic—desperation. You panted like you’d run a marathon, begging, begging him to let you finish.</p><p>Ten minutes until midnight, and there were tears in your eyes.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan almost wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get it up again, as he’d promised. Fuck he hated getting old. But you were too incredible, too patient to be denied. And the moment he thought about your perfect cunt fluttering around his cock, he was hard.</p><p>He kissed you gently, wiping your wet cheek with his thumb. The fingers of his other hand he left to trail in your folds, not moving, but reminding you they were there as you whimpered with need.</p><p>“Ready?”</p><p>“Please,” you begged, eyes fiery and burning into his with all of that pent-up desire straining for release. His cock stood straight at attention, nearly as desperate as you to give you what you wanted. But he kept teasing, enjoying the sight of you squirming.</p><p>“Tell me what you want…” he asked in a low, calm voice, idly tracing the contours of your face. Such a beautiful face… His thumb brushed over your soft lips, and they seemed to kiss him as you answered.</p><p>“I want you,” you rasped, voice trembling with exhaustion. “I want you to fuck me… please.”</p><p>“Do you want it slow and gentle?” He moved his fingers ever-so-languidly between your legs, and you nearly screamed.</p><p>“You know what I want,” you growled. “Please, <em>fuck</em> me, Mr. Kneef. I want everything you’ve got. I want to hide the marks at work. Make me fucking scream. Destroy me with that horse cock between your legs, and make me come—please! Please let me come.”</p><p>“There’s my whore,” he smiled. “Over. On your knees.”</p><p>Your legs were shaking as you tried to get up, and your hands still tied behind your back made it even more difficult, but you managed to swing your weight forward into sitting. Bryan took over from there. He flipped you onto your stomach, dragged your hips up to meet his, and propped them up on a stack of pillows, so even if your legs gave out, he’d have your ass right where he wanted it. That perfect, round ass. It was his. He ran his hand over the smooth skin, then lifted it and brought his palm back down swiftly. Your face was pressed into the mattress, turned to the side, so your yelp and moan weren’t muffled before reaching his ears like sweet music.</p><p>With one swift motion, he buried himself fully inside you.</p><p>“B-Bryan!” you wailed out, voice cracking. It was too much—he was too big for you, and if he hadn’t been tormenting you for an hour, it probably would have hurt too much to bear. But there was a wildness to your voice. It was just the right amount of too much. Your voice was drunken, slurring headily as you moaned, “That feels so good.”</p><p>And he started moving.</p><p>Bryan rutted into you hard and fast, each powerful thrust drawing a louder and louder moan as he bottomed out against the end of you. Fucking you from behind let him penetrate even deeper than your first liaison, and fuck you harder, without reservation, hips snapping against the cushion of your ass. He could feel every velvety inch without the latex in the way—the way the heat of your walls gripped and twitched and squeezed around him, pleasuring his full length.</p><p>He grabbed your bound arms and pulled you upright, within reach. The smell of you was intoxicating as his teeth met your flesh, biting the back of your shoulder, your neck, claiming you as his. Giving you those marks you wanted. When he saw you with a scarf on Monday, he’d be thinking of this moment, of you beneath him, crying out as he brought you to the precipice. Your cunt began to flutter around his cock.</p><p>“Do not come until I tell you to,” Bryan menaced, and for emphasis, he curled his fingers lightly around your throat. Not enough to take away your air, but he figured you would like the controlling gesture. He was right. You moaned, and your muscles melted, nearly collapsing onto the pillows he was wise to have braced under your hips.</p><p>“Y-yes, Mr. Kneef.”</p><p>“Good girl.”</p><p>Bryan wasn’t terribly into bondage—though he did prefer hard, fast, and angry sex, especially when he had frustrations to work out. Which he should have had tonight, by all rights. His ex ruined his plans for an uneventful evening—brought back memories he’d rather not dwell on. But he wasn’t frustrated. Not like he was on Christmas Eve when he fucked you this hard and discovered you were wild for it.</p><p>Tonight, he was still laughing about the way you threw wine on Syd’s precious fucking fur coat. The way you went feral and tackled her to the ground. Running away, beating an undignified retreat together. It was absurd, and childish. And you went along with him, with all of it.</p><p>It was a shame he only saw you as another cog in the machine for so long.</p><p>So tonight, his merciless hammering wasn’t for him to burn off tension, but because you loved it that way. Because you made such luscious moans when he found a deeper part of you to ram his cock, and each of your moans, in turn, made him fall apart, heightening each sensation. You didn’t want cuddly intimate bullshit—you were looking for something specific from him. A dark fantasy he could indulge. The asshole boss dominating you.</p><p>He wasn’t being an asshole now, he thought, smugly, as his fingers bruised the flesh of your hips as he jackhammered into you. The hotel room was filled with the sounds of skin smacking skin, your wailing, tremulous moans, the low rhythm of his grunts, and the smell of sex. He was giving you exactly what you wanted.</p><p>And it was fun giving you what you wanted.</p><p>“I’m not going to make it, Mr. Kneef,” you panted. “Ah—ah! I can’t… can’t hold it!”</p><p>“You can, and you will.”</p><p>One minute to midnight. Bryan’s brow was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he was starting to have trouble keeping his own creeping climax at bay. The feeling was pulsing white-hot where your bodies merged into one, like the long, thin note of a violin stretching, warming, rising into a crescendo.</p><p>He could feel your slick walls growing slicker, contracting around him as you whimpered, fighting your orgasm until he gave you permission, and it made holding off his own almost impossible.</p><p>Then, outside, several floors below in the ballroom, the joined voices of hundreds of party guests began chanting in unison, muffled through the door, but clear and loud enough.</p><p>
  <em>“Ten…”</em>
</p><p>You half chuckled. An eye popped open and glanced back over your shoulder to give him a wry look—but his next thrust wiped the sarcasm off your face.</p><p>“You’re going to ring in the new year by coming on my dick. Ready?”</p><p>Fuck, you wanted to call him cheesy, but your lust-fueled mind was so far away from arguing. Your body was drenched in hormones and sweat from being denied your release for so, so long, and now it was racing into reach and all you wanted was feel that satisfaction.</p><p>
  <em>“Seven…”</em>
</p><p>It was like everyone out there was cheering on your orgasm—participating in a voyeuristic show they had no idea they were a part of. The whole fucking party was just for you.</p><p>“Wait,” Bryan warned.</p><p>
  <em>“Five…”</em>
</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>You whined in desperation, voice breaking into a sob.</p><p>
  <em>“Three…”</em>
</p><p>Bryan’s hand slipped between your thighs and his fingers worked your clit at a frantic pace, his hips crashing against yours dangerously, heavy balls slapping against your ass. You couldn’t hold it anymore—</p><p>
  <em>“One!”</em>
</p><p>“Come with me,” he ordered, ragged with desire, and you finally let go.</p><p>The wave unleashed at last broke over you harder than a dam suddenly giving out—not hot waves of arousal lapping at your beach, as your orgasms usually felt, but an entire dam unleashing its boiling reservoir in a torrential cataclysm, unbearable pleasure raging through your streets, sweeping away entire buildings as you drowned in sensation. Your shattered, sobbing howl was so loud you almost couldn’t hear the crowd exploding into cheers of <em>“Happy New Year!”</em> outside, several floors down. Bryan thrust into you again and again, shallower and erratic as you felt his hot seed filling you.</p><p>Fireworks exploded overhead, somewhere above the Chicago skyline. Literal fireworks.</p><p>The orchestra started playing Auld Lang Syne as the loudest of the cheering began to die down, playing out your heightened state as you began to slowly relax and come down.</p><p>Bryan pulled out with a heaving sigh, and brought his face close to your ass to watch his cum dripping out of you. “God, look at that. Perfection.”</p><p>“Don’t! Stop looking,” you whined, suddenly shy.</p><p>“Don’t stop looking?”</p><p>You had no response except an inarticulate series of groans.</p><p>He smirked and gave your ass a smack for good measure before untying the belt—not that it was so tight you couldn’t have wiggled out of it yourself, but it would ruin the symbolism. The fantasy of you being helpless. You’d been obedient this whole time, keeping it on. “Such a good girl,” he found his lips murmuring into your hair as you finally stretched your arms. Then he kissed your head, and went to clean up. His legs trembled beneath him as he limped to the bathroom. His beard would need a full washing after today. His tongue felt like lead.</p><p>“I can take you home,” Bryan offered, when you were both washed. “Or you can sleep here.”</p><p>You were still perfectly naked and starting to climb back into bed, so you had seemingly already made a decision, but you paused at his offer and turned to him.</p><p>“Will you be sleeping here?”</p><p>That was a loaded fucking question. He couldn’t tell from your drowsy tone whether you were wrinkling your nose at the idea of sharing a bed with him.</p><p>Your arms reached out at the air between you, your fingers clenching and unclenching in grasping hands. He allowed himself to be summoned thus, and your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you fell back onto the bed, pulling him down with you.</p><p>“Cuddles are good,” you murmured into his chest hair, so sleepy and half-intelligible he was certain you were seconds from unconscious. But then you looked up, a serious expression in your eyes, tinged with—he thought it was sadness. “Let’s keep the fantasy going a little longer. Until we check out.”</p><p>His chest tightened at that. A warm, strange tightness that made him put his arms around you, and tuck you in under the covers when you did, moments after, drop off to sleep like a rock.</p><p>Bryan thought about the comfortable familiarity he had with Sydney that he’d grown so fond of he almost mistook it for love. He knew, after today especially, that it wasn’t love. But he knew that he wanted that feeling again.</p><p>And now that he admitted that—identified what he wanted—he could work toward that goal. Solve it like any other problem.</p><p>He wanted that feeling with you.</p><p>Screw your “this is the last time” bullshit. You said that every time, and always came back for more. Whatever this was between you wasn’t over with the holidays. You wanted him. He knew you did. He just had to show you that he was worth staying for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Awful Decisions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On Monday, things did not go back to normal. Though you had both agreed that nothing had happened over the holidays and nothing would ever happen again, on Monday, the special favors you hadn’t asked for began.</p><p>At first, you weren’t certain Bryan was giving you the juiciest cases on purpose. But then he called you into his office and let his fingers graze over yours for too long as he handed you a Redweld, his eyes dark and insinuating. He complimented your scarf, knowing his marks were hidden underneath it. When you were late coming back from lunch, he didn’t chew you out like he would have anyone else.</p><p>He didn’t proposition you directly. You supposed he was waiting for you to initiate, which he might have thought was gentlemanly, but was so much worse. At least if he was direct with his intentions, you could refuse him directly. This was just enough little things to make you question whether he was violating your boundaries or not.</p><p>Maybe you were overreacting. Could you blame him for being a little flirtatious, considering all the sex you’d had?</p><p>A week later, he suddenly and unilaterally decided to rearrange the entire bullpen. Everyone else under his department thought it was just Bryan Kneef going on another power trip—taking out his frustrations on his subordinates by inconveniencing them for no reason. Officially, he claimed it was to improve efficiency.</p><p>Only you knew. He shuffled everyone around just to hide the fact that he moved <em>your</em> desk to where he could watch you from his office.</p><p>The building was getting dark on Wednesday evening. Motion-sensitive lights automatically turned off as STR Laurie cleared out for the evening.</p><p>“Working late?” asked Roxy, another paralegal, as she passed your desk on the way out.</p><p>“Kneef is really cracking the whip. I’m swamped,” you lied, but she groaned in commiseration. Bryan being a dick was always a believable lie.</p><p>You looked around and made sure you were the last one in the bullpen before creeping your way into his office. He smiled like a hungry crocodile when you walked in. It was unusual for him to work late—and it was clear he wasn’t, already halfway through a glass of Scotch, feet on his desk. He was waiting for you. Assuming you were going to fuck.</p><p>He danced around the subject at first, skirting it. Even as he rose from his desk and slowly stalked toward you, he played it cool, letting his words drip with innuendo in their tone, if not their meaning. His body language was pure seduction, and there was no one left in the office to catch you in the act… But you stopped him, grabbing his wrist before he could grab your ass. Then he tilted his head curiously and frowned.</p><p>“This has to stop. We agreed no special treatment. We agreed to forget everything that happened. People are going to notice I’m getting more bonuses than they are.”</p><p>“There have to be <em>some</em> advantages to fucking your boss,” he smirked, casting his eyes over you in a way that made his wrist feel like it was vibrating with sexual heat under your grip. Your face burned, and you released him, trying to keep your eyes stern. Trying to keep your breathing steady.</p><p>“We are not fucking. Jesus, it was one time. One… holiday-week time.” The more you thought about it, the more it pissed you off that he couldn’t stick to the damned rules. “We cannot be in a relationship.”</p><p>“I’m not talking about a relationship. Just fun. Off the record. When it suits us. You must admit we match each other’s needs.”</p><p>Fuck, it was tempting. Your panties were getting damp at the low growl of his voice and the hedonistic pleasure it promised. As he stepped closer and his cologne washed over you, your aching core remembered the last time it was filled by his thick erection and throbbed for more.</p><p>He traced a finger under your chin and met your eyes with his brilliant, intense green. Suddenly you wanted to play with his beard and watch his eyes close as they always did, as he held back a soft, low whine deep in his throat. You knew that, for a moment, lawyer-Bryan would disappear, and there would be only a touch-starved man melting for casual affection.</p><p>But you stopped yourself. Shook your head.</p><p>“I’m not like you. I can’t do sex without feelings. I’ll get attached, and then I’ll get hurt.”</p><p>Bryan paused. Something in his eyes changed. Tension deepened the creases around them, but they were softer, too. His voice was hushed and still as if testing the question, “What if there were feelings?”</p><p>The next thing you knew, you were in his arms, the warmth of his solid chest against your cheek. Your stomach twisted, almost on the verge of crying, but not crying. “Please don’t make this harder than it is,” you whispered. “I know you. It would never work out. I just got out of a… Dammit!” The list of reasons why not stuck in your throat as a squiggling, chest-tightening, bubbling, longing, electric feeling welled up.</p><p>It was wrong and stupid, but your fingertips curled into his beard, pacifying his glare of betrayal at your almost-rejection. His eyes closed, and you kissed him. The wriggling feeling in your chest kicked as your lips slid over his and captured his low moan, as his large hands slid their warmth over your waist. God, you couldn’t help it. You thought you could help it with a shallow jerk like Bryan, but your wild heart couldn’t be stopped once it got started.</p><p>Just like that, you were drunk on infatuation—your brain spinning, searching for ways this could work out. Maybe you’d transfer to another department so there would be no conflict of interest. Maybe Bryan would actually change, and wouldn’t cheat on you or get bored. He <em>almost</em> confessed to having feelings for you! In an indirect way that wouldn’t hold up in court. But that meant something, right?</p><p>No.</p><p>All it meant was that he wanted to keep fucking you. You were his newest toy, and he would say anything to manipulate you into opening your thighs. Even if he thought the feelings were real, they would only last until the next shiny object caught his eye.</p><p>And yet, each time your lips nearly parted from Bryan’s hungry mouth, you dipped back into him—into his warmth, the electricity that prickled under your skin with every touch, and the smoky taste of whisky on his tongue. There was nothing outside of the kiss you wanted more than losing yourself inside it. Nothing else you would rather be doing.</p><p>When he finally broke away, Bryan searched your face with a surprising vulnerability. That vague sadness that always tugged your heart. Your lips were slick with his saliva, his scent all over you.</p><p>Without a word, your fingers dropped to his belt.</p><p>And then he was unbuttoning your blouse to nibble your breasts, kneading them under his palm. Refreshing the bruises he had left on New Year’s.</p><p>And then you were guiding him backward, pushing him onto his big leather office chair. And then you were hiking up your skirt as you straddled his lap, holding his shoulders as you sank down onto his thick, heavy cock. Riding him, rolling your hips against him in delicious, languid strokes. His eyes stayed on yours as he thrust up into you. A warm and rich green that reminded you of the forest—though for Bryan, it would have been more apt to compare them to dollar bills. In the end, you knew all he cared about was money, expensive suits, and ambition. He was so wrong for you. He had no heart to give—only a fragile, disused thing he kept hidden in a box under his bed. God forbid anyone see it.</p><p>But this, right now, felt close. This slow sex with you on top, his hands under your ass supporting you but not urging you faster, was almost lovemaking instead of fucking. Neither of you saying a word. Looking into each other’s eyes, lowering your mouth to his. There was a more profound connection than your previous encounters, where the focus was on the sex—on him being the dominant Mr. Kneef, fucking you senseless, calling you degrading names that thrilled you, and you made you feel dirty in the best kind of way.</p><p>It was terrifying.</p><p>You had never been afraid with him before, not when he was tying you up, holding you down, and having his wicked way with you. So long as it was rough and roleplaying, you could pretend there was some emotional distance. But there was no game now. No, “Yes, Mr. Kneef.” Just the tender rocking of his hips, your fingertips stroking his beard, and his eyelids slowly drooping.</p><p>Finally, you arched on top of him, his hands bracing your hips as you went rigid, and lights danced behind your eyes, your name on his lips. He turned you around then, bent you over his desk—you briefly wondered how many other women he’d taken this way, on this desk—and fucked you from behind, setting his own faster pace, but not a brutal one. It still wasn’t like before. It was tender. Terrifyingly, gut-wrenchingly tender. His arms were wrapped around you when his hips stuttered, and he, gasping, filled you with his hot release.</p><p>You felt sick with guilt.</p><p>The next day, you gave your two-weeks’ notice.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>You wanted to wait until you had a new job lined up in New York before leaving STR Laurie, but you had to get out of there before things went any further. You couldn’t be in the same state as Bryan Kneef anymore or you would end up fucking him, you’d get attached, and you’d waste another two years of your life in goddamned Chicago. Over another guy who would make you feel like shit and break your heart in the end.</p><p>None of your relationships had lasted less than six months—even the bad ones. Even the truly awful ones that should have been over after two dates.</p><p>You were a born clinger.</p><p>There was a reason you went for safe bets—nice guys like Francis (had seemed to be). Because you fell hard, then let your heart guide you into awful decisions (liking moving across the country). You stayed and worked things out when someone with more self-respect would walk away. You compromised. Sliced off pieces of yourself to fit the ideal your partner wanted. And it meant you had no sense of self without a partner.</p><p>You knew you needed time alone to find yourself. To fix yourself.</p><p>Like fuck you would let yourself adapt into whatever a snobby, selfish ass like Bryan Kneef thought was the perfect woman. She probably wore heels that hurt her feet every day, developed an opinion on caviar, and was as mean and cold as he was. Maybe she would find out what Memo 618 was about and become a willing player in the corrupt games Bryan and his high-powered friends were playing.</p><p>Casual sex seemed like a fun change of pace. It would be good for you! And there was no risk, since Bryan would walk away and forget you exist. But he wasn’t forgetting you. He was growing <em>feelings.</em></p><p>And you were right to be scared.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“What is this?” he seethed when you handed him your resignation letter.</p><p>“You knew this was coming. Can we try to be professional?”</p><p>Bryan’s nostrils flared like a wild stallion ready for a fight. The only thing that kept his voice down was the fact that it was first thing in the morning, and the office was buzzing with paralegals and junior associates just outside his door.</p><p>“You’re trying to fuck with me the way Sydney did. Withdrawing until you get what you want, thinking it will weaken my resolve. What? You want me to <em>commit to you?</em>” he spat tauntingly. “A raise?”</p><p>Your skin was hot and numb in the face of the accusation. You knew you weren’t trying to manipulate him—just get out. But your ex always berated you for being inconsiderate and selfish, and part of you wondered if it <em>was</em> true, if even Bryan fucking Kneef thought you were a piece of shit.</p><p>In a way, it made leaving easier. One way or another, you shouldn’t be with anybody right now.</p><p>“I don’t want anything from you! I told you I wasn’t ready for a relationship of any kind, and you didn’t listen.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> came to <em>my</em> office yesterday looking to fuck, and now that’s my fault?”</p><p>“No! I came to your office to tell you to back off. You were making me uncomfortable.”</p><p>He barked a dry, incredulous laugh. Once again, you found yourself intimidated by his aggressive presence, which seemed to tower over you despite his lack of physical height.</p><p>You grabbed your opposite arm across your waist and kneaded the muscle and fat beneath your thumb. You couldn’t maintain eye contact. “Sex was a mistake. I only wanted to talk.”</p><p>“I didn’t force you, if that’s what you’re trying to imply.”</p><p>“I know.” Guilt gnawed at your stomach with a sickening turn.</p><p>You risked a glance at his face. His eyes were still narrowed and burning, but he looked broken, too. Something was off about him since his breakup with Sydney. He was drowning, and clinging to you to keep his head above water more than you knew.</p><p>“Bryan,” you pleaded, desperate to make him understand. “It’s not that I don’t like you. But I need to take care of myself first. I just got out of a serious relationship, and so did you. This needs to stop. It’s not good for either of us. So I’m going. This was fun, but… Can we just… be friends?”</p><p>That was it. Once the words were out of your mouth, it made perfect sense. You might miss the steamy sex, but on an even deeper level, you were going to miss being on Bryan’s team. It was fun getting up to stupid schemes with him, keeping his secrets, grifting his family, and sabotaging your exes. The sex had to stop, but maybe you didn’t have to stop being friends.</p><p>“Bitch,” Bryan snarled—and not in the admiring, game-recognizing-game way he called you that name before. “I don’t need your pity.”</p><p>“Friendship isn’t—”</p><p>“This is for the Barker case”—he slammed down a heavy file onto his desk and slid it to you—“Have it done by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”</p><p>Then he threw you out of his office.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Of course, you couldn’t finish the work he’d handed you by the next morning. No competent person could. Which he knew when he assigned it solely to you, when it should have been a team effort.</p><p>But that didn’t stop him from writing you up. That was the point all along.</p><p>It was a common tactic around STR Laurie and other offices with shitty management. Make an employee’s job impossible and pad their record with disciplinary warnings so you can fire them without risk of a wrongful termination claim. Bryan was making it clear he would not allow you to leave on your own terms.</p><p>“What the fuck is this?!” You barged into Bryan’s office, not even bothering to close the door before ripping into him. You slammed the written warning down onto his desk.</p><p>He spun the sheet around on the hardwood and looked over it, eyebrows raised as if it were his first time seeing it. “It says here’ failure to complete work on a deadline.’ You’re not expecting <em>special favors,</em> are you?”</p><p>“I know what you’re doing, you spiteful fuck.”</p><p>“Careful,” he tsked, “That is no way to talk to a partner at the firm that writes your checks. Not if you want to work again.”</p><p>“No, you be careful. You used your position of authority to coerce me into a date—two dates—remember? That looks <em>real</em> bad for you if it ever comes to light. Don’t think you can push me around.”</p><p>With a movement so fast you could have blinked and missed it, Bryan was standing in front of you, too close. His teeth hissed in your ear as he asked, “What do you think will happen if you talk? Hmm?”</p><p>Your pulse pounded and a cold sweat prickled your skin. He pulled back slightly to pierce you with a challenging stare. The door was still open—he was so assured of his advantage he hadn’t bothered to close it. He just stared back, brows raised, waiting. When your throat was too dry, he answered for you.</p><p>“I’ll get a warning, maybe. But you? You’ll be the office tramp who tried to blackmail her boss for favors. When I wouldn’t give you that promotion, you tried to destroy my career”—he gave a charmingly sympathetic pout—“Nothing will happen to me. But I can make your life hell.”</p><p>“What happened to mutually assured destruction?”</p><p>“That was a fairy tale to make you feel better, sweetheart. An accusation would be <em>inconvenient,</em> but do you think they’re going to fire their top litigator? Over <em>you?</em> You never had any power here. Shit always rolls downhill.” He smirked that smug, satisfied smirk because he was right. And your stomach turned that you’d ever wanted to kiss that mouth.</p><p>“I’m moving soon anyway. You don’t scare me.”</p><p>His smile stayed small and tight as he casually walked back around his desk and sat down behind it. Almost like he was bored. “You don’t think I have connections in New York? I can blacklist you at any firm you apply to. And when your new east coast job asks for references, you’ll tell them… what?”</p><p>Bryan chipped away at your leverage like a sculptor, until every advantage you thought you had was in shards on the floor, and all you were left with was the reality he shaped: that the rich and powerful always won. Bryan Kneef always won.</p><p>“Are you kidding?” you heard your voice say. It sounded distant and thin.</p><p>“Do I look like I’m kidding? This is what happens when you fuck with me. If you want to work again, you better do whatever it takes to get back on my good side. Because one word from me—”</p><p>“You would try to ruin my life? Over… not wanting to be your fuck buddy?”</p><p>There was a slight twitch in the corner of his eye. “Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>“Fuck. <em>Fuck!</em>” You paced his office, knuckles white.</p><p>Bryan had the darkest look on his face. Not seething with anger, not drunk on too much of the Scotch he kept in his office—this was cold and calculated.</p><p>You turned sharply, striking your fists down on his table (he didn’t flinch). “I thought you were an asshole in a sexy way, but you’re fucking disgusting. How many hearts have you broken, and you’re retaliating because I left first? I can’t believe I almost liked you. We’re done. Goodbye, Bryan.”</p><p>His face didn’t shift from it’s cocky, tight-lipped smile while it was in your field of view, but when your back was to him, and it was clear you were leaving and not turning back around to beg, his voice sounded almost surprised.</p><p>“Where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>“I quit.”</p><p>“I own your ass. Didn’t you hear me?”</p><p>You stopped in the doorway and cast him one last glance over your shoulder. You wanted to be sure he was looking you in the eye.</p><p>“I heard you. That’s why I’m leaving.”</p><p>Flipping him off, you marched out into the bullpen of stunned coworkers who had overheard, if not the specifics, loud arguing. Someone started to clap. Roxy helped you grab a few of your personal items, and then you were gone.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>You would never have let Bryan see you cry, but once you were home, you broke down. It was an energized cry, not a depressed-slump-in-the-corner kind. One fueled by rage, sniffing and hands shaking as you furiously packed up your apartment. (Luckily, most of it was still in boxes from when you broke up with Francis last month.)</p><p>An assortment of colorful mugs went into a box, wrapped in newspaper.</p><p>How serious was he? Were you going to be able to work as a paralegal again? What other skills did you have? Maybe you could get an office administration job.</p><p>The dishrack was here when you moved in. It could stay with the apartment.</p><p>But the threats weren’t as frightening as the fact that he would make them. It was sick. Controlling. You had trusted him.</p><p>A decorative cup full of half-dead pens went into the trash.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>You were going to have to file that HR complaint after all.</p><p>Threatening to report him was always a joke… sort of. The only thing he held over you to “coerce” you into Christmas dinner (and the New Year’s party) was making you work late, and he did that all the time <em>without</em> an ulterior motive. It wasn’t as if he was being <em>that</em> unethical.</p><p>OK, it was <em>a lot</em> unethical. But in a rakish way that made you want to bend over his desk and do… all of the things you <em>had</em> done with Bryan.</p><p>He never forced you to do anything. And for all the gossip circulating the rumor mill about Bryan Kneef being a dog who hit it and quit it, there was nothing to suggest harassment. He only went for lovers who threw themselves at him—a large pool from which he selected by rankings of eagerness and physical attraction.</p><p>Using his influence to force someone to stay was unlike him, as far as you knew.</p><p>Whether this was new behavior, or if you just hadn’t seen it before, you couldn’t let him do it to anyone else—someone who might not be as able to fight back. You opened your laptop and sat cross-legged in the middle of your half-packed away living room floor, and you typed up an email to HR@strlaurie.com.</p><p>You were still typing when a blue BMW pulled up outside of your building.</p><p>The overpowering rumble of the engine (he’d modified the exhaust just to make it more obnoxious) warned you of his approach. You watched him through a drawn curtain and narrow eyes as he crossed through the little green space to your brick building, up the short stair landing, and disappeared into the main hallway. Dammit. It would have been easier if your neighbor didn’t keep leaving the building entrance unlocked. You couldn’t pretend not to hear his fist pounding insistently outside your living room.</p><p>The knocking stopped as your footsteps reached the door. “Do I have to call the cops?” you shouted through it.</p><p>“Don’t be so dramatic,” Bryan said, and you could hear the roll in his eyes.</p><p>“What are you doing here? There is <em>nothing</em> you can say to make me come back, and you’re not coming inside.”</p><p>“I know. I’m not here for that.”</p><p>You eyed him through the peephole. He was shifting uncomfortably, his face drawn. If Bryan were a human being, you would have thought it was remorse.</p><p>“You left some shit at your desk.”</p><p>There was a box under his arm. You opened the door a crack, secured by the door chain, and Bryan presented a handful of sticky notes, a rubber-band ball, more dead pens, and a picture of Francis’s dog.</p><p>“Burn it.”</p><p>You closed the door.</p><p>“I wanted you to know”—he spoke quickly before it could click shut—“I didn’t mean any of that. Before. If you were worried about your job search. Don’t be. I don’t have enough contacts in New York to blackball a fucking paralegal anyway. Maybe if you were a <em>lawyer</em>, but you are way below anyone’s radar.”</p><p>“Was there supposed to be a fucking apology somewhere in there? Because if you’re just here to be a dick—”</p><p>“I’m sorry. OK?”</p><p>His shoulders were just as squared and his posture just as tall as ever, but there was a strain in his eyes that told you how infrequently those words came out of his mouth. For a moment, you were too surprised to come up with a scathing retort.</p><p>“If anyone calls me, you’ll get a glowing recommendation. I just came to wish you luck, and let you know you don’t have to worry. Have a nice trip,” he said, and then added, at such a lower volume he must have hoped you wouldn’t listen, “I’ll miss you.”</p><p>He dropped the box of junk by the door. He was going to leave then, but his half-hearted, poor-baby angst made you even angrier, and you couldn’t resist getting another shot in. “That why you acted like a piece of shit throwing a toddler-tantrum?” you sneered.</p><p>“That was low. Even for me.” His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he scowled at the ceiling.</p><p>“You know threats like that might be a baby tantrum to you, but to people on my level—people you have power over—it’s not fucking funny. It affects us. You terrorize your staff like it’s a joke. What am I supposed to do? Let it go? Have you done this before? Threatened to destroy your girlfriends’ lives if they ever leave you? Are you going to do it again?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“And how do I fucking believe that?!”</p><p>Bryan huffed. Your rage was only getting worse as you leaned into the cold door frame, letting the chain take your weight. He met your gaze through it, your one-and-a-half eyes that he could see through the crack of the door.</p><p>“Wait,” he said, and you could tell he was as forthright as Bryan Kneef ever got. “Do you mean threaten someone’s career, or threaten their career specifically over a sexual relationship?”</p><p>“Jesus, Bryan.” You slapped your forehead.</p><p>“Let’s not pretend bullying is beneath me.”</p><p>You could have laughed. In fact, you did laugh, as much as you tried not to. He really was such a slimy piece of corporate shit. A goddamn shark in a suit. And it was part of what made him so attractive.</p><p>“But playing hardball with someone I want to fuck…”</p><p>“It’s fucked up,” you finished for him. “On a whole other level.”</p><p>“Hm,” he agreed.</p><p>“Creepy,” you continued.</p><p>“I get it.”</p><p>“Stalker, restraining-order bullshit.”</p><p>“I’m trying to eat crow here; you don’t have to rub it in.”</p><p>You smirked. “Well, it might be the last chance I get, so…”</p><p>“Bitch,” he smiled.</p><p>“Asshole.”</p><p>His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “You’re right, alright? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This whole goddamn Sydney situation… I don’t know what got into me.”</p><p>“Well Bryan, they’re called ‘feelings,’ and they’re normal. Just not… like that. Find a better coping mechanism. You’re a mess.”</p><p>“Feelings,” he scoffed. “I’m going to avoid those from now on.”</p><p>“Don’t. Just give it time. Soon, you’ll realize you never wanted <em>me</em>—you just wanted someone to fill the void. It’s why rebounds are always doomed to blow up. Give yourself time to get over it—I bet in a month you won’t even remember my name.”</p><p>Bryan didn’t argue, but his silence was tortured. </p><p>“If you ever settle down”—you stroked your chin in consideration—“you’re going to end up with one of those supermodels who became an actor and surprised everyone by being really talented.”</p><p>“Probably.” He shifted. Straightened. Tilted his head to glimpse more of you through the door (his cheeks flickered as he took in the sight of you smiling at him). His voice dropped, gravelly and sincere. “Good luck in New York.”</p><p>That should have been the last time you saw him. If you were a wiser person, it would have been. But you were inclined toward following your heart, and at this moment, it was thrumming to run after him.</p><p>You caught up as he reached the bottom of the front steps, whipped by the frosty January wind.</p><p>“Bryan…”</p><p>He stopped and turned. You followed him down the stairs, keeping your slippered feet on the final step, so you were a good head taller than him when you pulled him into a hug. For a few seconds, or a minute—not long enough—you held him tight. His arms wrapped around your back, solid and muscular. Your nose brushed his salt-and-pepper hair, breathing in the clean, sharp fragrances of the products he used. When you pulled back, his warm breath hung in the air, green eyes searching yours, confused, half expecting you to drag him inside and fuck him one last time. Not sneering or mocking for once. You cupped his face, his dense, neatly groomed beard under your palm.</p><p>“Honesty suits you”—you patted his cheek—“Show more of this side, and you’ll do fine.”</p><p>Then you ran back upstairs and closed the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Long Distance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first of Bryan’s texts came when you were elbows-deep in a kennel splattered with liquid dog shit.</p><p>For obvious reasons, you didn’t look at it right away.</p><p>Living in New York again was the first breath of air you’d had in years—the first time you weren’t scrambling for survival, living bill to bill, check to check, trying to make ends meet so you could support your relationship with some guy you were dating.</p><p>You fell into being a paralegal because it paid well and only took six months to get your certificate. Your undergraduate degree (and passion) was in zoology, but there weren’t many zoology jobs without a Ph.D., and you never got a Ph.D., because… <em>Oh right</em>, because your boyfriend at the time didn’t want to move out west for the program you got into. So you found a job to pay the bills.</p><p>A few years later, you started dating Francis and immediately agreed to move west for him.</p><p>For the last two months, you had been living with your dad in Riverdale rent-free, reconnecting with old friends, and taking jobs that interested you. This was your chance to find yourself. To finally explore your options.</p><p>Like being a veterinary assistant. A job that was less glamorous than you had hoped. A lot of getting clawed at by angry cats, yelled at by angry pet-parents, and disinfecting a lot of poopy crates during a canine influenza outbreak.</p><p>Maybe this wasn’t your career of choice after all. But at least it was your choice. You would never let a guy hold you back again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Honesty suits you. Show more of this side, Bry, and you’ll be just fine.” </em>
</p><p>If Bryan were truly honest, he would have called out after you. He would have begged, “stay for me.”</p><p>But you wouldn’t have. He couldn’t expect you to remain in Chicago just for him and occasional (if satisfying) sex. It wasn’t as if he would ever change cities for a woman.</p><p>He had his life, and you had yours. For a short time, they intersected, and the intersection made a delicious spark.</p><p>Now it was over, and he had to let go.</p><p>It was uncharacteristically sentimental of him to threaten you into staying, and uncharacteristically selfless of him to apologize. The lawyer in him knew better than to admit wrongdoing, but at least doing it in person made it he-said-she-said. (Imagine the field day prosecutors would have with a voicemail saying, “Sorry for threatening to blackball you if you don’t fuck me.”)</p><p>He didn’t expect you to talk to him, honestly. All he wanted was for you to go in peace—to not wonder if every job you failed to land was sabotaged by a phone call from your vindictive ex-boss slash ex-lover. Much less did he expect you to forgive him so quickly.</p><p>But he knew why you did. He was intimately familiar with the mood you felt toward him: indifference.</p><p>You didn’t care enough to be furious, and in that sense, he would have preferred if you left swearing, swinging fists, and screaming at him. But you forgave him and smiled a pleasant, encouraging smile. Gave him kind words of parting advice.</p><p>Because you were leaving, and he was already in your rearview mirror.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On lunch break, you finally pulled your phone out—and nearly jolted from the metal-legged breakroom chair when you saw who texted you. Then your lips curled into a wry smile at the content of the message: Bryan bragging about some new hookup, trying to make you jealous.</p><p>You ignored it for two days, knowing silence would torment him more than any snarky reply.</p><p>Moving back home wasn’t quite the warm reunion you’d expected. Half of your friends had moved away or had kids now and no time. At least you had your parents, and you, Miles, and Kaitlin got together on weekends sometimes. Still, there was enough of a void to not want a completely clean break with Chicago.</p><p>You kept in touch with Roxy and a few other coworker friends. That email to HR was saved in your drafts, your finger poised over the send button in case they heard about any more inappropriate harassment out of Bryan, and it was time to guillotine him. But from the sound of it, things had gone back to normal in his life.</p><p>As normal as possible for a corrupt, womanizing, asshole litigator.</p><p>Which was exactly what you expected would happen—he wasn’t going to waste any time pining. He got weirdly obsessed for a brief time, but he never wanted a relationship. Leaving was the right choice.</p><p>Bryan was bad for you, and it wasn’t as if you loved him. You honestly didn’t care that he was sleeping with someone else.</p><p>And yet…</p><p>The more you tried not to think about his text during the second half of your shift—the more you told yourself you were above it, over it—the harder it was to concentrate on anything else, and a tabby nearly took out your eye. A razor-line down the back of your hand turned red and began to weep.</p><p>As you sank onto the blue plastic-leather-upholstered seat of a swaying train car home, you were desperate to check your phone to see if he’d followed up with another message, impatient for your reply. Nothing since you boarded. You stared at the screen and imagined him waiting by his phone, checking it compulsively, and grinned at the mental anguish the wait was causing him, completely unaware of the irony.</p><p>Two days later, you sent a reply: “Who is this?”</p><p>Your phone buzzed right away.</p><p>A dick pic.</p><p>You dissolved into laughter, clutching the phone to your chest even though you were alone in your bedroom.</p><p>“Ohhh, it’s a disgusting jerk. Bryan, right?” you typed back.</p><p>Three dots appeared at the bottom of the chat window.</p><p>“What was your name again? I have you in my contacts as ‘Cheap Whore.’”</p><p>You sent him back a picture of yourself and imagined that brief flicker of excitement he would get before it loaded and was just your hand flipping him off.</p><p>He didn’t reply, though you waited an embarrassing several minutes for typing dots to reappear.</p><p>You couldn’t dwell on it for long—you had a job interview to get ready for. So you pulled on the most professional outfit you could muster (the same long skirt Bryan once kneeled beneath in an elevator) and reviewed everything you could remember about ornithology. After the nerve-wracking interview left your palms sweating but ultimately feeling like you had made a positive impression, you forgot all about Bryan Kneef and whether he texted back.</p><p>In all of the excitement of getting a new dream job, celebrating, and making preparations, it didn’t even cross your mind that he didn’t reach out again for over a month.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan wasted no time after you left. By the end of January, he had already cycled through three new sexual partners.</p><p>The first, Karen, a tiny blonde, broke things off after a week when she found out he’d slept with her brother last year. The second, April, a plump and large-breasted brunette, stormed out the very next morning when he failed to realize he’d slept with her before at an American Bar Association Conference. The third was muscular with angular features, and he couldn’t quite remember their name, which was the problem.</p><p>They left him feeling more defeated than ever. One-night stands weren’t what he wanted.</p><p>Being with you stirred something up inside his chest he didn’t realize was there. The casual domesticity in the way you faked being his girlfriend awoke a need for a deeper connection. Familiarity. The warm feeling of someone who knew how he liked his beard scratched, who would laugh at him, challenge him, and make him eager to fulfill their fantasies.</p><p>But he wouldn’t say you were “the best thing to ever happen to him.” He could make a connection with anybody. He just had to try that—what was it?—opening his heart thing.</p><p>And he tried. Oh, he tried. Bryan Kneef started showing up with roses and letting partners spend the night in his bed.</p><p>Nothing stuck. No one wanted more from him.</p><p>This—he told himself—was why he only did booty calls. Kept it casual, ended it quick, like ripping off a band-aid. When he didn’t break things off, he got broken up with, and he did not like it.</p><p>On Valentine’s Day, he got drunk and woke up with Will and a hangover. Only a fuzzy recollection swam through his headache of being lonely at a bar, drinking heavily, and nearly drunk-dialing you before a handsome stranger plopped down on the barstool next to him.</p><p>And oddly enough, this was the one that stuck.</p><p>Will was fun. A shaggy-haired frontman for a local rock band nobody had ever heard of and whose music, frankly, made Bryan’s ears bleed. Not his type at all. A little too emotional, but sweet. Like you.</p><p>Things were good enough to get his mind off the only one of his recent exes he didn’t think of as a pile of physical attributes. (You were the bitchy one who made him feel warm.) And he was so over you, he had to text you about it.</p><p>And you made him wait, you bitch.</p><p>Until his phone buzzed two days later, he thought you were done with him, and that was it. But you were just a coy little brat. So he sent you a reminder of what you were missing (which no longer constituted workplace sexual harassment!).</p><p>And that was how he found out he officially had a boyfriend.</p><p>When Will yawned and rolled over in bed, he smiled to see Bryan fisting his thick cock for a selfie. His smile fell when his phone didn’t buzz a minute later. “Who did you send that to?!”</p><p>Apparently, sending nude pictures to one’s ex is considered infidelity, and Bryan had to swear off talking to you or risk losing the comfortable familiarity he was building. It made Bryan smile that Will would be jealous. His other exes rarely were. It meant he cared. Wanted more. And Bryan made quite a few more tantalizing promises that morning to make up for his bad behavior.</p><p>Bryan lied, of course.</p><p>He did message you again, eventually—a YouTube link to a live performance of “Boat Full of Monsters” after an argument with Will about whether his band’s music <em>totally slapped</em> (whatever that meant) or sounded like an electric guitar got stuck in a garbage disposal.</p><p>Your “what the fuck did you just make me listen to?” brought an uncharitable grin to his face.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His first attempt to call you was in June, when he knew full well you were on Jones Beach counting American Oystercatchers.</p><p>Even dressed in light wicking layers, sweat built up under your backpack straps as the hot sun rose higher, glinting off the waves, and humidity soared. Small black and white birds scuttled up and down the surf on stilted legs, sticking long red beaks into the wet sand, probing for a meal. Lowering your binoculars, you scratched a quick note onto your clipboard before pulling the buzzing phone from your pocket and saw Bryan’s name.</p><p>You rejected the call.</p><p>Bryan had been texting you on and off for a month, and the chats were not entirely unpleasant. He griped about shitty music and bragged about the hot blond he was banging who just might be <em>the one</em>. You exaggerated about how good your first successful one-night stand was, and he cheered you on (in his Bryan way, which involved calling you a slut and insisting the guy couldn’t have been as skilled as him—which was, unfortunately, true).</p><p>At first, the messages were just about taunting, boasting, and one-upping in a cycle of trying to make the other jealous, and trying to prove <em>you</em> weren’t jealous.</p><p>Which you weren’t! Mostly.</p><p>The interesting thing was when it stopped just being about that.</p><p>You don’t know why you told him, but you mentioned Kaitlin pulling some strings to get you a summer field tech job with Audubon New York’s Long Island Bird Conservation Program. He immediately accused you of nepotism, and it felt like a punch to the gut. You’d been nauseous with guilt over the ethics of getting a friend’s help.</p><p>His next text said, “You might finally get somewhere in life,” followed by a string of party-hat emojis. Followed by a gif of a bunch of twerking strippers with money flying in the air.</p><p>He could never just be normal.</p><p>Somehow it made you feel better knowing people like Bryan wouldn’t even have the decency to feel guilty about using their connections to achieve ambitions far more sinister than counting shorebird nests. You found yourself apologizing less for your own existence—Bryan Kneef would never apologize for taking up space. For succeeding. So if someone wanted to tell you that you didn’t deserve the job, well, fuck them. And so you came to smile whenever your phone buzzed with a notification from him.</p><p>A phone call was different, though.</p><p>The tap of emotions you swore you turned off was a leaky one. You would never admit it, but your heart ached constantly when you first moved—a dull background noise of low-grade pain. But after months without a word from Bryan, it got easier to plug the leak. Easier to have perspective. It was a fling. Fun, meaningless sex, just like you always said it was.</p><p>You couldn’t even imagine what a relationship with Bryan Kneef would look like. Not a healthy one, anyway.</p><p>Bantering with him occasionally via text was <em>nice</em>. Nice to keep in touch. Nice to enjoy his petty shenanigans from a safe distance without the overshadowing burden of unresolved sexual tension. Free of the possibility of accidentally fucking.</p><p>But hearing that deep, demanding voice in your ear again? The thought filled you with a trembling surge of mixed emotions. Indignation. Arousal. Dread. That dull ache you thought you’d shaken months ago crept into your chest and began to throb.</p><p>You were glad you were at work and didn’t have to think about whether or not to pick up.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan thrust into you harder from behind, yanking your hair back until you yelped with pleasure and agony. Fuck, you felt good wrapped around his cock—so tight. But it was the way you cried out for more that undid him the most. The way you loved everything he did.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>All you could hear was Bryan’s grunting and the rhythmic slapping of his balls against your ass. His brow furrowed in concentration, flushed lips just barely parted in his dark beard as he watched you try to writhe beneath him. But powerful arms held you down, his heavy body sinking you into the mattress. The loss of freedom was as exciting as the devilish glint in his eyes. You cried out as he snapped his hips wickedly, his cock hitting so deep…</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He imagined you wearing that shimmery dress from New Year’s Eve. The memory of edging you until you were drooling—a shivering, whimpering mess begging him to let you cum—made his cock throb for more even though he was already buried to the hilt inside of your heat. For a musician, Will wasn’t nearly as vocal in bed.</p><p>Bryan should have fucked you in that dress. It was expensive, but it would have been worth ruining it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It felt like you were going to be split in half as Bryan thrust deeper within you, harder. You wished Derek, or Dave, or whoever it was would keep up.</p><p>Bryan’s cock was magnificent, like riding a goddamned firecracker. This cock was… OK. It wouldn’t have been a hopelessly unsatisfying instrument if its owner wasn’t so bland. The thirty-something-year-old businessman struck you as appealing in his suit. A sharp dresser. A job that required ruthlessness. You thought you’d find that same insatiable spark of villainy that Bryan had. Someone who would ride you hard, never call, and never expect you to call.</p><p>It was the new you—no more Mrs. Monogamous. You were a liberated femme-fatale, using a new man each night for your own sinful pleasure.</p><p>But Dave had all the enthusiasm of a shark eating salad. What passed for oral barely warmed you up. If you wanted to reach climax, you would have to enhance reality with a little imagination.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have flipped you over to look into your eyes as you came together—not if he wanted to keep seeing <em>you</em>. Will’s sandy hair fell into his face, and Bryan brushed it back. He smiled, his eyes so trusting. Devoted. Bryan’s heart ached at the sight. Will loved him, and he was thinking of someone else.</p><p>Fucking asshole.</p><p>Will was so open with his affection, but he wasn’t the type Bryan could bring to company parties or country clubs. He could dress him for the part, but Will was… a bit dull. Like a golden retriever—all heart and nothing upstairs.</p><p>The man barely understood what Bryan’s job entailed, much less the darker shades of it that weren’t part of the official job description—Bryan’s little extracurriculars that put him on the fast-track to partner and made his exorbitant lifestyle possible. Will had yet to figure out Bryan’s reputation as the most ruthless, corrupt asshole at STR Laurie. Didn’t know how poorly he treated his subordinates. How much of his personal frustration he took out on hapless paralegals and secretaries.</p><p>Will just saw a big-dicked silver fox with a penthouse apartment.</p><p><em>“Please don’t see me,”</em> Bryan thought. It was a bad idea to be face to face. Will looked deep into his eyes as Bryan rutted into him, stroking his cock to the rhythm of his moans, their shaking breath merging together. Bryan let his head hang down as if concentrating on his nearing climax, but he just couldn’t meet Will’s trusting gaze. Not when he felt so exposed. <em>“Don’t look at me that way, you beautiful idiot.”</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan sucked at your clit, his sharp green eyes locked onto yours with a taunting gleam as he lapped at you—he knew exactly what he did to your body. How he made you react, even if you didn’t want to. You were helpless for him, and he knew it, and he loved to watch you go from defiant to giving in completely. The surrender in your eyes as his fingers pumped into you, curling toward your sweet spot—the way you jumped, rocked by a convulsion as he sucked harder without warning, and his lips made a wet kissing sound as they finally released your swollen flesh. Then he would close his eyes to savor your whimpering as his tongue soothed your clit in quick spiraling circles.</p><p>“F-fuck!”</p><p>“Yeah, you like that, baby?” came a voice that wasn’t Bryan’s, breaking the magic.</p><p>Spurred on, Dave’s lackluster pace doubled in speed, if not depth, and he shuddered and came inside the condom about four thrusts later.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The other end of the call rang, and your chest constricted as you waited, ear pressed to the phone. This was a bad idea if you were trying to move on with your life. But what did it matter? He was on the other side of the country—nothing was going to happen.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Bryan’s voice was low and husky, hushed. Will was fast asleep beside him in Chicago.</p><p>In New York, you laid in your empty bed in the guest room of your dad’s and step-mom’s house after taking a taxi home.</p><p>“You called earlier. Chicago burn down again?”</p><p>There was a long pause where all you could hear was his breathing. You didn’t know what the hell you were going to talk about, or if he believed you were begrudgingly returning his earlier call. But just the timbre of his voice and the steadiness of his breath would be enough to think about later with your vibrator.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“How’s it going at… whichever annoyingly cheery non-profit it fucking was?” Bryan rolled his eyes and the video froze at just the right moment to lock him in an expression of petulance for several seconds.</p><p>“Amazing. We just sued the pants off a major technology group for violating the Migratory Bird Treaty Act!”</p><p>Leaves were turning from orange to dry brown in the little park below your new apartment. It was tiny, as most Manhattan apartments are unless you are fabulously wealthy, but the window in your combination kitchen-living room-office looked out over a few trees and a spit of grass on the corner, and you set up your desk in front of it.</p><p>“Just stay away from any of my clients. Don’t make me regret helping you,” he warned, though you recognized the pride behind his tone.</p><p>When the bird-monitoring job ended with the summer, you were adrift again. The soul-searching continued. You took a few classes at a community college (learned to paint, but found no direction), tried to get an internship at the Bronx Zoo (lost out to college kids), volunteered at the Greenburgh Nature Center (it was all high school volunteers and screaming children), rode a horse in Van Cortlandt Park (and briefly considered becoming a stable hand because it seemed as viable as anything else at that point).</p><p>For a month, you thought it was all a mistake. You would never find where you belonged. Then suddenly, it all clicked.</p><p>In October, Bryan stayed true to his word and wrote a glowing reference letter for the career of your dreams, working for an environmental lawyer. He liked to take credit for single-handedly getting you the job, but really, he just didn’t stand in the way.</p><p>After ten months of soul searching, you were a paralegal again. And couldn’t be happier.</p><p>This time, you felt valued for your work. The lawyer supervising you came to you with questions about migratory birds or salamander populations, knowing your background. You felt your work mattered—you were protecting the planet from greedy corporations instead of defending them.</p><p>There were a few big egos on staff, but you weren’t afraid to tangle with them anymore. You’d already fucked the worst of them (and now he was in your corner, feeding you tips on how to confuse and intimidate the coworker who had it out for you).</p><p>When Bryan invited you to a video chat to celebrate the job offer, you half expected something inappropriate—him naked, or mid-orgy. But it was just a pleasant chat. With his handsome face sending electric butterflies up your spine, making you remember how his green eyes burned brighter than fire.</p><p>But things stayed professional. Platonic, anyway. You were just friends, that was all.</p><p>You were, actually. <em>Friends.</em></p><p>Bryan was not a good person, but he could be the right kind of bad when you needed it. When your abusive mother died and all the “she had her demons, but—” eulogies made you want to scream, he was your only friend to cheer, “Ding-dong, the bitch is dead!” When you were afraid of sounding cold or rude, he always understood. You never had to hide your darker side from him.</p><p>And in return, Bryan would occasionally… begrudgingly… ask for relationship advice. Generally along the lines of, “Am I the asshole here?” and “How do I not be an asshole here?” And you would try to help him find his kinder side.</p><p>Out of all your coworkers from two years in Chicago, you never would have guessed that <em>Bryan Kneef</em> would be the one you kept in touch with most. But there you were.</p><p>“So, how are things going with Will?”</p><p>There was a stiff pause not caused by video lag. Bryan’s jaw clenched, and his bearded chin jutted out just slightly. “They’re not.”</p><p>“What? Do you mean you—?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“No!” you whined. “But I thought you were—”</p><p>“Fucking drop it.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Bryan...” Your face fell. This was his longest relationship (that you knew of). You had been shocked when he admitted the hookup he bragged about months ago was the <em>same guy</em> as the hot blond.</p><p>“Don’t be,” he huffed. “I was bored anyway.”</p><p>You gave him a stern stop-burying-your-emotions look.</p><p>“Knock it off. I am not burying my emotions. He was a fucking idiot who played shit music, and I tried so hard to… make it work. And it wasn’t worth the effort. He started to figure out who I really am, and it wasn’t Prince Fucking Charming.”</p><p>“Well that’s <em>his</em> problem,” you snapped back, crossing your arms. “To love Bryan is to love a charming asshole.”</p><p>His lips twitched into a small smile at that. “What about you? Engaged yet?”</p><p>You snorted. “Just dates. I’m taking a page from your book—keeping it casual.”</p><p>“Thought you couldn’t handle sex without feelings,” he taunted, one corner of his smile curling crookedly upward.</p><p>It turned out you <em>could</em>, actually… just not with Bryan. Instead of that, you shot him a trite line about “Practice makes perfect!”</p><p>What would be the point in telling him? He wasn’t going to leave his high-powered career in Chicago, and you sure as hell weren’t going back there. It helped no one if you admitted how your heart ached whenever his eyes lit up vivid green at the mention of Will. It didn’t matter if a childish corner of your heart was ablaze with dreams that Bryan’s affections would be yours now that they’d broken up. That he <em>would</em> leave everything behind just for you.</p><p>You didn’t put stock in fantasies.</p><p>And even if—<em>if!</em>—it were possible, every reason you never wanted a relationship with him was still valid.</p><p>On his last call, Bryan complained about “Diane fucking Lockheart” who had not stopped pursuing Memo 618, which you were certain was something illegal. He was an asshole, a playboy, emotionally a child, untrustworthy, and unreliable. Fun to fuck and fun to chat with, but that was all.</p><p>Even your burgeoning friendship was temporary. You always knew his attention span would only last so long before he fell out of touch again, forever.</p><p>You just didn’t realize it would be so soon.</p><p>The fight was so stupid and came out of nowhere. “You wouldn’t believe what these New York guys can do in bed,” you teased, trying to get him a little jealous—just like you and Bryan <em>always</em> teased each other. But tonight, he took it personally.</p><p>You should have known to treat him gently after a breakup. After Sydney and then you, he was fragile in a way he could only express through anger, and if duration predicted the depth of the emotional wound, then losing Will hurt deepest of all.</p><p>Suddenly he was having a conversation with an invisible voice instead of you—a voice that repeated cruel things in a twisted mockery of your words. Your new hookup was <em>better</em> than him. All Bryan was good for was sex, and he wasn’t even good at sex. You were laughing at him the whole time, enjoying his failures. You never said those things, but the intruding voice wouldn’t stop translating.</p><p>“You have no right to be jealous, Bryan!” you snarled back as his accusations began to sting.</p><p>“Fucking right I don’t.”</p><p>Within sixty seconds, your conversation had gone from teasing to shouting, to Bryan hanging up.</p><p>After taking an hour to cool down, you messaged him and got no response. It worried you. He never responded to stress in particularly healthy ways, and you only hoped he wasn’t hurting himself. Or anyone else.</p><p>A repetitive buzzing from the top of your nightstand woke you. You groped for the phone in the dark, finally grabbing it and pulling it into bed with you. In a groggy haze, you thought it was the alarm, but as your blurred vision came into focus, so did the time (12:47 a.m.) and the incoming video call request (Bryan Kneef).</p><p>You answered, foolishly thinking it would be a drunk apology. Instead, you saw Bryan naked in bed with two women who both seemed too comfortable with him video chatting a stranger <em>not</em> to be escorts. They pouted and moaned theatrically, asking, “Daddy, will she be joining our fun?”</p><p>You froze, suddenly wide awake. Bryan made a piggish remark you expunged from your memory and slapped the one straddling him on her bare ass as he grinned at the camera.</p><p>You hung up.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>No messages came the next day. Or the day after.</p><p>Good.</p><p>
  <em>Fucking asshole.</em>
</p><p>Like hell you ever wanted to hear from him again. As if you wanted to see that. It was one thing to make you jealous, but, fuck. You didn’t want to see that.</p><p>Still, part of you expected some kind of apology, or for him to text you like nothing was wrong (“Since when are you prudish? What’s a little video-sex between friends?”). Maybe gloat about it.</p><p>After a week, you started to worry.</p><p>Roxy left STR Laurie six months after you did, so there was no one left in the office keeping tabs on him for you. What if he was seriously spiraling this time? In the hospital? What if he <em>died</em> and you never found out?</p><p>His secretary picked up when you dialed Bryan’s extension (there was never any risk of Bryan answering his own phone). You pretended to be his sister checking up on him, and the secretary gave a weary, understanding sigh about Mr. Kneef being so unsociable, even with family. She offered to schedule an appointment, and you declined. That told you all you wanted to know.</p><p>He was fine. He just wasn’t talking to you.</p><p>Two weeks later, you gave in and texted him. Just a simple, “How are you?”</p><p>Three little dots popped up for just a moment. Then disappeared.</p><p>He was fine.</p><p>But you were out of his life now.</p><p>A month went by. Christmas came and went. You spent it with your father, step-mom, and half-siblings and weren’t as lonely as last year in Chicago, yet reruns of the previous Christmas played on loop in your mind. You wondered how Martha and Tim were doing. Was Bryan with his family for a big dinner? Was he scandalizing the table with his filthy mouth? Did he take another employee home? Maybe that secretary.</p><p>Even though it was wonderful to be surrounded by family, that night, in your cold bed, you thought about kissing Bryan under the mistletoe until tears started running warm trails down your cheeks. You stared into the dark as they cooled and dried into a film of salt, only to be replenished by fresh droplets following the same tracks. You fell asleep with your face buried in a wet pillowcase.</p><p>It would be a very long time before you found out what happened to Bryan Kneef.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Wanting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bryan tries to take a step in the right direction, but keeps tripping.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was distracting that his name was also Brian, though he spelled it with an <em>i.</em> That was the only reason you accepted the date.</p><p>The waiter brought a bottle of wine to the table, opened it, and poured the deep red liquid into your glass, then Brian’s, who toasted to new beginnings. You drank.</p><p>It would have been too weird if he was another Bryan with a <em>y,</em> but your profiles were a high match on one of those <em>serious</em> dating sites that you had to pay for (so you knew it was legit). So the difference between a <em>y</em> and an <em>i,</em> you convinced yourself, was vast. Brian chatted about his very important job doing very important work to do with banking fraud.</p><p>You drank.</p><p>Outside the window of the intimate French restaurant, snow was falling in light, feathery flakes over midtown. It was nearly Christmas again, and bitterly cold for so early in winter.</p><p>In the year-and-change since you’d last heard a peep out of the <em>other</em> Bryan, you had done some casual dating. A boyfriend who lasted three whole months. A few one-night stands. You learned to demand what you wanted if you were going to be satisfied (not all men had Bryan’s instincts in bed). It was liberating to have sex without commitment—without sacrificing your entire identity to a partner.</p><p>For a while, that was all you wanted. But now that you’d figured out who you were alone, you were ready for a serious relationship again. So, as much as it stung when Bryan cut you out of his life just as you were becoming friends, it was for the best. Every call was a distraction of confusing emotions pulling you back to Chicago, making it impossible to fully commit to your life in New York. Zero contact made it easier to move on.</p><p>Brian-with-an-<em>i</em> wasn’t giving you that spark of adrenaline yet, nor warm tingly feelings, but he could eventually. Or maybe it would be the next on your match-list of responsible, emotionally-available bachelors looking for commitment.</p><p>It was a terrible time—the worst possible time—for Bryan Kneef to decide to call you.</p><p>“Sorry,” you hissed, fishing your buzzing phone out of your purse. Then you choked on your wine at who it was.</p><p>“Everything all right?”</p><p>“Y-yeah,” you coughed, dabbing your lips. Reject call.</p><p>Before you could turn on Do Not Disturb mode, the phone buzzed again with a message: “What are you doing for Christmas?”</p><p>At first, you were stunned, but then your blood began to boil at the sheer presumptuousness of it. No contact for over a year, and suddenly—what?—he wanted you to be his fake girlfriend again? Couldn’t even bother with a “Hey, hello, how’ve you been?” You shoved the phone forcefully into your purse, took a swig of wine, and spent the rest of the date furiously regaling Brian Pagliaccio with tales of the worst ex ever. It was clearly not his ideal date, but fuck it—it wasn’t like you gave a shit about banking fraud.</p><p>The haste of your respective “goodnights” was made less awkward by the bracing cold of the city streets at night.</p><p>The minute you got home, you pulled out your phone to discover another text from Bryan.</p><p>“Is your address still 292 —— St, Apt. 42?”</p><p>Your mouth gaped as you read the notification, and your fingers were flying over the phone keyboard. “How the fuck do you know where I live?”</p><p>“Seeing anyone?”</p><p>“None of your business.”</p><p>He made no reply, and you smacked yourself on the forehead for replying so hastily you confirmed all his questions.</p><p>“What are you planning?”</p><p>No reply. A sweaty, clammy dread pricked your skin.</p><p>“Bryan?!”</p><p>When you arrived home from work the next day, he was waiting in the hallway, leaning impatiently against your door with his nose in his phone. He wore a charcoal grey suit a shade darker than his hair and beard.</p><p>A swear formed and died on your tongue.</p><p>He looked smaller. His robust tan was gone, and his shoulders sank low on his frame with none of the cocky self-assurance they used to hold. The vague sadness you used to see flash across his face had burrowed in and nested. But the moment he heard your footsteps and his tired eyes fell on you, his posture straightened, and his lips turned upward in such a genuine smile you could barely stop yourself from smiling back.</p><p>“What the hell?” you greeted, frosty as the snow powdering your jacket.</p><p>He shrugged. “I missed you.”</p><p>You stared at him. He stared back, but without the intimidating laser-focus he once possessed. That was his big explanation? He <em>missed</em> you?</p><p>“You can’t just…” You shook your head but choked on the words. However many lovers he’d been running around with this past year, however he ignored you like you meant nothing, however fickle and audacious he was for turning up on a fucking <em>whim,</em> you missed him, too.</p><p>He gave a soft, surprised sigh as you threw your arms around his shoulders and pulled him in tight.</p><p>“Hi,” he sighed.</p><p>His fingers splayed over your upper back, strong and massaging, spreading a warm fire even through the thick layers of your jacket. You ducked your head behind his neck. His hair smelled clean and bright like his cologne, the salt-and-pepper (leaning more toward grey now) soft against the side of your nose. His heart was beating fast enough to feel it against your chest, and he felt... still solid, but thinner. Like he had been sick.</p><p>“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” you muttered as your fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head, falling so naturally back into intimacy now that he was close. You would call it muscle-memory, except your entire physical relationship had only spanned two weeks. It was just impossible for your body to resist proximity to his, especially when your instincts were screaming to protect him.</p><p>“I missed you,” he said again, as if it was all he could say. He pulled back slightly and turned his head so you could feel his beard against your cheek as he asked, “Can I kiss you?”</p><p>“Are you kidding?!”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“God<em>damn it,</em> Bryan!” You shoved him away, but even your scolding had an edge of fondness. Pulling a stunt like this was such a ludicrous asshole maneuver you could almost laugh. It was exactly what you expected out of him… but the beaten dullness to his eyes was not.</p><p>Without your willing it to, your palm cupped the side of his jaw, and your fingers worked their way into the dense brown and grey of his beard until your nails scraped the skin below.</p><p>His eyes slid shut just like they always did, and a low contented rumble emanated from his chest. He smiled like a man who had forgotten what comfort was. The kind of smile you can only make after spending hours outside freezing in the snow—when you stagger home with your gloves soaked through, toes numb as icicles, skin clammy—and you finally sit down with a mug of hot cocoa. That was exactly the eyes-closed, long-exhaling smile he made.</p><p>You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. His hands twitched where they rested over your back, and slivers of green opened just enough to catch a glimpse of your lips.</p><p>“Fuck you,” you whispered before leaning the final inch against his waiting mouth.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan loved the way you were affectionate even when telling him he was an asshole. He appreciated that because… he <em>was</em> an asshole. He knew it. Everyone else either hated him for it or pretended they didn’t notice. Or, like Will, they were blind to it, until they weren’t.</p><p>It was uniquely fulfilling to be with someone who saw him for what he was and didn’t care.</p><p>It <em>was</em> unique.</p><p>He had plenty of time to think about it, plenty of time to search for that feeling again, but never found it. Either you were the only one out there for him, or he didn’t care to keep looking. He wanted <em>you.</em></p><p>The smell of you, the press of your warm body against him, flooded his senses. It had been so long since he touched you, smelled you, yet you felt like coming home. Now that he had you in his arms again, he would never let go. Anticipation of this moment had been all that kept him going.</p><p>His lips parted, and yours parted compliantly with them, allowing his tongue to gently sweep your mouth, finding your own delicate tongue tracing his in return. Your taste—he had almost forgotten the perfect taste of you. He was intoxicated by memories and the easy willing way you moved in his arms that made him feel like the center of the universe. He wondered if you kissed other men the same way you did him.</p><p>Like a single drop of black ink coloring a cup of once-clear water, the thought spread its smoky tendrils out and darkened his mood. But as he broke the kiss with a grunt, you gave a disappointed whine too silent to be performative—you tried to suppress it out of pride, but it slipped out anyway.</p><p>And then you looked into his eyes and marveled, “Has it really been two years? It feels like I just saw you yesterday,” and the darkness receded.</p><p>That was precisely what he wanted to hear. Though a vast expanse of time stretched between the last time your lips met in his office, kissing you felt just the same. If you felt that way, too, there was hope.</p><p>For the first time, he had hope that things could pick up where they left off.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The interior of your apartment was always too hot. It was an older building with an older radiator system, which meant your downstairs neighbors were always too cold. They turned their heat way up, and all of it drifted up to the upper floors where you resided.</p><p>Bryan didn’t comment on how small it was—just one kitchen-living room space barely ten feet wide, a bathroom, and a bedroom—but he did appreciate the warmth as he shook out his coat and hung it on a hook by the door. His sudden presence in your home was disorienting. You already regretted the impulsive kiss.</p><p>“New haircut?” he observed with a slight cock of his head. Making small talk.</p><p>“Are you going to tell me why the hell you’re really here?”</p><p>“Not going to offer me a coffee first?”</p><p>In answer, you crossed your arms and glared, barring him from entering any further into the apartment.</p><p>He glanced off before flicking his eyes back to you and simply replied, “I wanted to see you.”</p><p>“So you just… flew here on a whim?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“That’s… ridiculous,” you almost laughed—Mr. All-or-Nothing, hot and cold, ignoring you for a year, then booking a ticket just to say hi—but your laughter descended into anger. “No, honestly, fuck you. You can’t just <em>show up</em> like this. If seeing me was so important, where the hell were you this entire year?”</p><p>He barked a dry, sarcastic laugh, a bit of the old, confrontational Bryan Kneef bristling up out of this depressed, clingy puppy. “You really don’t know?” he pierced you with a probative stare and scoffed when your face revealed total ignorance. “Then you don’t give a shit, do you?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I disappeared, and you didn’t even set up a Google Alerts for me. Some fucking friend.”</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em> I’m <em>so sorry</em> not stalking you on social media is a <em>crime,</em>” you retorted, dripping venomous sarcasm. “If we were friends, you would have told me if something important was going on—remember how I used to tell you stuff about my life? Back when, you know, you <em>talked to me?</em>”</p><p>He winced, but continued scowling as if you were the one in the wrong.</p><p>“Why would I even <em>want</em> to know what—or who—you were doing? The last time you called me was a fucking porno!”</p><p>His face blanked and it was clear he had completely forgotten about that call. “Oh yeah, Tami and Nora…” he tugged his beard in thought, and a vague smile played at his lips. It wasn’t an unpleasant memory and he didn’t even have the fucking decency to disguise it.</p><p>“You know, I don’t know why I even let you in. Why was I happy to see you? We’re done. Get out.”</p><p>“Federal prison.”</p><p>“And don’t even bother to…”</p><p>You looked at him.</p><p>He looked back at you. A sheepish color crept up the side of his uncharacteristically pale neck, but he forced his head to lift up with bluffed pride as he held eye contact.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That’s where I was,” he shrugged. A smile that was meant to be nonchalant tugged at his lips until he looked crazed. “Minimum security,” he shrugged again when all you did was stare.</p><p>“You… what?”</p><p>“Enough. You fucking heard me.”</p><p>You stumbled back a few paces and slumped onto your couch in a haze. Then you patted the cushion next to you. He took your hand as he sank down beside you, a tender gesture that was so unlike the old him. It made sense now—some of it did, at least. The seemingly invincible Mr. Kneef had been beaten. And like a kicked animal, he came crawling back to his master for shelter.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Diane fucking Lockhart is like a dog with a bone,” he muttered, the exposition to his tale of ruin.</p><p>Memo 618 had been exposed—at least partially: a conspiracy of the rich and powerful to ignore the law when it suited them. Those at the top would keep operating, of course, too big to fail. But a mid-level player like himself? He was cannon fodder for the prosecution. Spent nearly a year in a white-collar prison (which wasn’t as fun as it sounded), and the last few months wearing an ankle bracelet. He was disbarred. Permanently, in Illinois, at least. Naturally, he lost his job.</p><p>There was nothing left of his old life. His powerful corrupt associates wouldn’t do him any favors now that he’d been caught—he was hung out to dry. And every above-board contact wouldn’t dirty their hands with a convict. Even his family told him to keep his distance for the time being.</p><p>But you… He had a year to think about you. The moment his parole ended, he knew where he needed to be.</p><p>He kissed you again, needy and tender, all but crawling onto your lap on the couch. It made sense that he sought you out. You supported him when he was getting over Sydney. You were the only one who had seen him this weak before. He trusted you. Out of all the flings and exes and business associates he called “friends,” you were the only person he knew would be sympathetic.</p><p>His thick tongue pressed its way into your mouth, the kiss growing hot and desperate. He clung to your arms hard enough to bruise as he moaned against your lips, and you pressed your hand against his chest and pushed him back. Wetness shone in his harrowed green eyes as he waited on you for a signal.</p><p>“Slow down, jailbird.”</p><p>His eyes narrowed with a familiar gleam, and the hand that was holding yours flipped to grip your wrist and pin it to the cushion. “Watch your mouth. Daddy’s got much better uses for that tongue—”</p><p>“Stop it,” you said flatly, and his grip loosened. “I don’t want to play games tonight. Things can’t just go back to the way they were.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>His voice was quiet as he deflated, letting go of you entirely. You could tell he took it as a wholesale rejection. He was used to rejection lately. And if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t sure why that <em>wasn’t</em> what you had meant. Nothing had changed. Your laundry list of reasons why you could never be with Bryan hadn’t gotten any shorter—had it?</p><p>After two years, it wasn’t a rebound anymore. You both still wanted each other. He was in New York for you. He came all this way just to throw himself at your feet. The illegal shit he was involved with was over now. In fact, many of the biggest reasons you left him were no longer relevant.</p><p>Then the only reason not to be with Bryan was Bryan himself.</p><p>He was making a grand gesture now, but you knew how he treated his partners. Never admitted his feelings to them. Neglected them and made up for it with diamond necklaces. Vanished without so much as a “Heads up, I’m being convicted for interfering with the due administration of justice.” Nothing guaranteed he wasn’t going to keep on being the heartless playboy he’d always been.</p><p>But the secret, childish fantasy of taming the wicked Mr. Kneef was never far from your mind after all this time. Now here he was, offering himself to be tamed, and you couldn’t push him away again without trying. You just needed time to think about it. To process.</p><p>“I just want to catch up for now,” you said, putting your hand on his knee in a non-sexual but intimate gesture.</p><p>He frowned. “Fine.”</p><p>He shifted uncomfortably on the couch beside you, clearly not pleased with how the night was turning out. Apparently, he hoped you’d take him back without hesitation and he’d be balls-deep in you by now, enjoying comfort-sex while you whispered that everything was OK.</p><p>His frown deepened when you took his suggestion and Googled his name—something you should have done a year ago. It was a poorly covered story considering its breadth, with only a few headlines from independent newspapers. (It was about the mega-wealthy abusing their influence to escape consequences ordinary people face, so it was not surprising, but tremendously ironic, that the story was suppressed.)</p><p>As you read over Bryan’s part in all of it, you couldn’t help muttering to yourself. Blackmailing judges. Using his position at STR Laurie to overwhelm adversaries with petty lawsuits, knowing that they were innocent but unable to afford the legal fees to defend themselves. He had personally driven over a dozen non-profits out of business. There was more, but your eyes started glazing over as you recognized cases you had helped on.</p><p>“Holy shit. And you only got a year? So much for justice.”</p><p>It might have been true, but it was the wrong thing to say if your goal was to keep things civil. For all his brash cockiness, Bryan was like a toddler who skipped naptime when his actual feelings were on the line. And with you, right now, his feelings were bared and raw.</p><p>“Fuck you. This was a mistake.” Bryan rose from the couch, scowling down at you like you were an insect. “I’m leaving.”</p><p>“Wait!”</p><p>He grabbed his jacket off the hook by the door and thrust his arms through the sleeves.</p><p>“Don’t go. Please?”</p><p>He shot one last glare before the door slammed shut behind him.</p><p>You sighed into your empty living room, the radiator hissing angrily in the corner.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Footsteps galloped behind Bryan Kneef, smacking on the grey sidewalk. A weight tugged at his arm, and if he wasn’t as situationally aware as he was, he might have thought he was being mugged and punched you in the face. It was Manhattan after dark, in not the best neighborhood. Instead, he groaned with annoyance as you huffed and panted, breath making pale clouds in the crisp air.</p><p>“I said I was leaving.” Bryan kept his eyes trained forward and sped his determined steps.</p><p>“So I’m coming with you. Where are we going?”</p><p>A yellow taxi blared its horn as Bryan strode out into the crosswalk without waiting for the light. Your grip tightened on his arm. Bryan didn’t particularly care about your terror, or the irate driver, or being mowed down. He was pissed off. First, you wouldn’t give him what he wanted, and now you wouldn’t leave him alone.</p><p>“Stalker.”</p><p>“Says the guy who flew seven hundred miles to show up at my door.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was a dive bar with a classic wooden countertop and stools you could break an ass cheek on. This time of year, it was spruced up with green wreaths and colorful lights that couldn’t quite cover the pervading smell of desperation that reached peak saturation around the holidays, lending a unique energy to the usually quiet establishment.</p><p>There were a couple of bars on your block, and Bryan chose the seediest one to get drunk in.</p><p>He was laughing bawdily with his head thrown back, slamming back drinks, and flirting with everybody. Well, everybody except for you. That was the point. You, he made a show of ignoring while he chatted up a lonely businesswoman who let down her tight bun into long, stress-frayed locks that he brushed behind her ear. When you failed to stare wistfully at them or throw your drink in his face, he lost interest and hit on the bartender. Then a younger man with electric blue hair who looked like a K-pop star approached Bryan with a similar level of sexual bravado, and last you saw, Bryan was squeezing an entire handful of his ass and pulling him away to the back of the bar. He looked over his shoulder, found you, and winked.</p><p>You rolled your eyes. “Unbelievable,” you muttered into your Shirley Temple, though it was not only entirely believable, but more or less what you’d expected.</p><p>“Your boyfriend?”</p><p>A man with dark hair and hypnotic brown eyes took a seat on the stool beside you, quirking a brow and giving you a wry, sympathetic smile.</p><p>“<em>Pfft,</em> no. Just some asshole I hooked up with a couple times. I think he’s trying to piss me off.”</p><p>“What a waste. Want to piss <em>him</em> off by going home with me?” The man’s smile widened into a rakish grin.</p><p>You considered him with a thoughtful hum. He had a fine layer of dark stubble that gave him an effortlessly handsome appearance. And, wearing a simple button-down and functional winter coat, he reminded you of the guys you worked with on your Audubon Society job—practical and unpretentious. Unlike the douchebag you’d walked in with.</p><p>“Maybe…” you smiled, taking a slow sip of your drink. It could be fun, and it <em>would</em> piss Bryan off, too. Though you were so tired of hookups. Under the flirty veneer, you were just so tired of all the fucking around.</p><p>The bathroom door opened with a dramatic bang, and Bryan emerged sweating and hair mussed, arm draped around his latest boy-toy. They made a big show of public affection before Blue Hair told Bryan to call him, and swaggered out. Bryan grinned at you, though it was less energetic than his true boasting grin. You imagined he might have felt a prick of regret.</p><p>“Hope you used a condom.”</p><p>He gave a gruff <em>“Tch,”</em> and dropped into the seat beside you to order another drink. Still ignoring you, of course—his back turned like he wasn’t listening. Nursing his whisky. Hitting on whoever sat next to him.</p><p>Bryan’s cold shoulder was effective enough for you to forget he was there and enjoy flirting with someone who wasn’t a felon and didn’t have impulsive sexual encounters as revenge. You got lost in the friendly brown eyes in front of you. And so, it wasn’t your plan at all to make Bryan jealous when you, giggling, leaned forward and kissed the stranger.</p><p>As if on cue—on jealous, hypocritical asshole cue—Bryan whipped around and rose from the barstool in full fury.</p><p>“Do you even know where her mouth has been?”—he staggered—“That’s one grade-A tramp right there. She… she’s a fuckin’ whore.” He chuckled thinking about it. Your little inside joke. <em>His whore.</em> And it made his stomach turn—there wasn’t enough room in his chest to breathe.</p><p>“Stop it, Bryan,” you warned. “You’re drunk.”</p><p>“Or what? Who cares. I’m an asshole, right?” An asshole with nothing left to lose, who wanted to burn everything down and throw himself into the pit he was digging.</p><p>“That’s a <em>choice.</em> It’s a choice to act like—”</p><p>“You think this scrawny little nobody has what it takes to please you, sweetheart? Look at him. Bet he doesn’t have a dick you can choke on.” Bryan pumped his hips suggestively toward you, but leveled his sneering gaze at (you never did get the stranger’s name).</p><p>“Hey!” The stool’s legs screeched against the floor as the stranger stood and got between you and Bryan. It was only then you noticed how tall he was—towering nearly a full head above the solidly built but only five-foot-eight ex-lawyer. “I think it’s time for you to leave, buddy.”</p><p>Bryan just stepped closer, standing taller to get in his face, and laughed, “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?” Laughing, wild—he always intimidated opponents in court by acting belligerent, bashing his way through arguments until they yielded, but this wasn’t that. It wasn’t a calculated performance. He was out of control.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake!” you roared. “This night was <em>finally</em> starting to go alright, and you have to ruin it for me <em>again?!</em> What is wrong with you?”</p><p>There was a beat in which Bryan stopped fuming and just stared at you seated below him on a barstool. A split second where shame ripped through his gut like a fishhook. But some brown-eyed asshole whose lips were still wet with you blocked his line of sight, and all the anger flooded back as he growled, <em> “Cunt.”</em></p><p>And then Bryan was sprawling on the floor, blood gushing from his nose as your honor was defended.</p><p>And then Bryan was back on his feet and might have landed a blow of his own if he weren’t reeling with alcohol, if the stranger wasn’t sober, if his eyes weren’t watering, and if the bouncer didn’t catch him after his first swing. The stranger went in for a sucker punch as Bryan was dragged backward, but you were out of your seat and stuck your elbow into his ribs and pushed sharply back. The look of betrayal in his brown eyes—as if he expected you to take his side.</p><p>It would have been smarter. The guy you flirted with was cute, funny, and liked romantic poetry. He wasn’t a fucking monster. You could have gone home with him and thanked him for his chivalry all night.</p><p>But the second you saw Bryan bleeding, you knew you’d already made your choice.</p><p>“You showed up just to throw a tantrum!” you chided. You were at Bryan’s side, hefting one of his heavy arms over your shoulder, nursing his bloody nose with a paper napkin. “Why can’t you let me be happy? You useless fucking…” your words trailed into a groan of effort as you escorted him out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan was too drunk and nauseous from being punched in the face to talk (beyond slurred grumbles) as you dragged him back down the block to your apartment. Which was just as well, because there was nothing he could have said to explain himself. And nothing you could have said to explain why you were helping instead of leaving him to fend for himself in the cold like he deserved.</p><p>By the time you dropped him on your couch, the bleeding was under control.</p><p>You leaned over him and squinted at his nose, which was swelling but didn’t seem crooked or deformed. Gently, carefully, you pinched either side of it—he hissed and jerked his head away.</p><p>“Well, I don’t <em>think</em> it’s broken,” you sighed. “If it is, you can go to the hospital in the morning. No way am I shoving your dead weight into a cab.”</p><p>Your tone was harsh, but you were hovering close, practically straddling Bryan to inspect his nose. A strong hand pulled you down onto his lap. Once you were there, it stroked sensual arcs up and down your back. You gasped. His breath stung your eyes with alcohol vapor, and he whispered in your ear, “Can I kiss you? Come on… let’s… let’s…” His clumsy fingers made to fumble with your belt, and you rocketed off his lap.</p><p>“Absolutely fucking not, idiot.”</p><p>He sulked and fell back, letting his body slide down the back of the couch until he was half laying on it, his legs hanging over the edge. His eyes drooped closed. He didn’t move except for his chest rising and falling.</p><p>“Motherfucker,” you muttered. He fell asleep.</p><p>Slipping his shoes off his heels, you lugged his legs up onto the couch. Then you grabbed his shoulder and heaved, but he barely moved. “Come on, dammit. I can’t have you dying in my living room when you choke on vomit. Pain in the ass.” You gritted your teeth and strained until he took your direction and rolled onto his side.</p><p>From your bedroom, you picked out a fresh blanket and brought it back to throw over him. A pink fleece throw with butterflies you hoped he would be embarrassed by when he woke up. As you tucked the corners around him, he stirred and mumbled something.</p><p>“Don’t know what to do.” His voice was barely audible, slurred. He might have been talking in his sleep, and in his dream, it was a rousing, eloquent speech. But in your dimly-lit living room, the only other words you could make out were, “You’re the only thing I care about…”</p><p>You brushed the greying hair back from his squared forehead.</p><p>“Idiot.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The first thing Bryan Kneef was aware of was the smell of bacon and the sound of sizzling in a pan gently bringing him back to consciousness.</p><p>The next thing was the shrill screech of the smoke alarm going off, you screaming, “Oh no, shit, shit! Where’s the damned reset button? Shh! <em>Shh!</em>” and the sensation of his own skull exploding into a million separate shards.</p><p>You made him breakfast—it was almost noon, so you made breakfast instead of lunch just for him, and served him a plate without a word (once he’d dragged himself up, made a horrified noise at the girl’s-slumber-party blanket he was in, and vomited three times). He vaguely remembered making an ass of himself last night, and was still sore in some key places that told him an all-too-familiar narrative of what he’d done. He wanted to groan and plant his whole face in the plate of eggs in front of him, but he held it in, pretending he still had dignity.</p><p>It surprised him that he was still in your apartment. Anyone else would have called him a cab and told him to get out. Not made him a nice greasy hangover breakfast.</p><p>You slid a mug in front of him, and he sipped the hot, bitter liquid, letting it scald the tip of his tongue. You even remembered how he liked his coffee.</p><p>He hated this.</p><p>Yesterday he wanted to admit how much he needed you. Wanted to beg. And instead, he pushed you away and tried to destroy his last chance at happiness. But there you were, making him feel cared for when he didn’t deserve it.</p><p>You were quiet, though.</p><p>He might have told you to go fuck yourself, but the anger died on his tongue. He wasn’t angry at <em>you.</em> And your silence reminded him he’d already hurt you enough on his path to self-destruction.</p><p>He <em>hated</em> this.</p><p>Another sip of hot coffee burned his throat as he debated what meant more to him: punishing himself or opening his heart?</p><p>Pushing you away and losing you forever was somehow less terrifying than gambling that you’d agree to be with him. Because the chance was slim. It had always been slim, even before he’d ruined things as badly as he did. You already rejected him when you moved away.</p><p>If he put himself out there, and you rejected him again…</p><p>“So, Bryan…” you began, breaking his concentration.</p><p>“I want you.”</p><p>“Oh.” Your face was unreadable. Then you grimaced and joked, “That’s awfully forward.”</p><p>“Don’t expect me to get emotional about it,” his traitorous fucking mouth snarled out of habit.</p><p>“No. I would never expect <em>that.</em>” Your dry monotone cut him too deep in the tender morning, with his head pounding and his guilty heart threatening to rip him to shreds.</p><p>He was an asshole. He’d never be anything else. So he did what he always did.</p><p>“Why the fuck did I come here?”—he leaned over the table to glare in your face—“You were <em>nothing</em> to me. Just a cheap hobby.”</p><p>The sting of your slap hit like a freight train.</p><p>“Ow! Fuck!” The vibration throbbed through his bruised nose, his head exploding with blinding light behind his eyes. “Fuck,” he hissed again as you left the table.</p><p>He threw his fork down on the plate with a clatter that made him wince, and followed you into the bedroom. That’s where he found you, sitting on the corner of the bed. Stewing. He sat heavily next to you and waited in oppressive silence for you to say something. Anything.</p><p>You said nothing.</p><p>He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You weren’t looking at him, but your hands were down on the mattress. One of them between you and Bryan. He covered it with his larger one, his warm palm pressing lightly over the contours of your knuckles.</p><p>You didn’t jerk away.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>A short, dry laugh puffed from your nose.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“What’s this? An apology?” you mocked.</p><p>“What? What do you want me to say?” His breath was erratic and shallow, and he didn’t know why. He squeezed his empty fist until the nails dug into his palm, squeezed his eyes closed, and forced himself to breathe. It was what he did before speaking in court—what he used to do as a young attorney when his nerves still got the better of him.</p><p>You let the silence hang.</p><p>“I… want… to be with you,” he said after a strained effort. But after he got the first part out, the rest flowed easier, and soon he couldn’t stop his lips from moving. “I’ve had a lot of time recently to think about what I want in life. It used to be money. Power. Sex. Dominating my patch of the world. But ambition led me to lose everything… and it didn’t fucking matter. None of it made me happy. Nothing ever made me happy. But you”—he rubbed the back of your hand—“for a brief moment, you were a bright spot. When everything fell apart, you were the one I thought about. The one I missed. There is something I want in you, and I don’t understand it, but I don’t want to lose you again—ever. Give me a chance to prove that I can be better. Please.”</p><p>His heart was pounding against his sternum. He looked over at you, your shoulders hunched. You wouldn’t look back at him, but you hadn’t pulled your hand out of his yet.</p><p>“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he murmured. “Every time I come into your life, I hurt you.”</p><p>“No,” you corrected, staring hard at the opposite wall. “Nothing you have done has ever hurt me. Not really. Because I know better than to expect anything from you.”</p><p>His mouth dried. It was worse than hate or anger, indifference.</p><p>“I never let my guard down because I know you, Bryan. I know you’re going to say something cruel, cheat, ignore me, act like a creep. You came to New York to try to win me over, and the first thing you do is go fuck someone else! But I’m not angry. It’s just who you are. It doesn’t hurt, because <em>I don’t love you.</em>”</p><p>He didn’t mean to draw a sharp, shaking breath loud enough for you to hear, or for you to see him blinking back wetness pricking at his eyes. But you did. Because you winced at your own cold words, and your shoulders softened.</p><p>“Not in a romantic sense. Romance is built on trust. I trust you to be an asshole in every possible way,” you explained, and Bryan hung his head, “but I still want to be around you for some ungodly reason. So I must love you in <em>some</em> way. Like my dog. I loved my dog, even though she was always rolling in cat shit.”</p><p>He swallowed slowly, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. You gave a weak smile.</p><p>“If you’re asking for something more… I don’t know. I don’t think you know how.”</p><p>“You told me once that I need to open my heart. I’m trying. You can open it.”</p><p>“Bryan…”</p><p>“All I want is you—nobody else. You’re my last chance. Maybe I’m shit at showing it… but… just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Whatever conditions you set, I’ll follow them. Just let me stay.”</p><p>The last of his begging dangled in the air. He couldn’t think of anything more to say. You sighed quietly, thoughtfully, and didn’t say anything for a while. But you were contemplating. He followed your eyes as they darted between ideas. Between his knee brushing yours, his pants, his hand. His eyes. You chewed your lip before speaking again.</p><p>“I knew you would hurt me, so I never let you in. But it hurt anyway. Watching you be with other people while I pretended not to care? Maybe it’s not <em>deep,</em> but it’s constant. This dull ache that never goes away. As long as I keep denying it, I’ll keep slowly suffocating every time you turn up. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the ache.”</p><p>You leaned into him, smelling of bacon and fresh floral shampoo, and he wrapped his arms around you as you buried your face against his chest. He was still in the same blood-stained shirt from last night, and he wondered if he smelled like sweat and stale booze. But that didn’t seem to bother you right now. You clung onto him and hid your face, and he felt a bloom of something inside himself—heat in his cheeks, in his chest. A gnawing, growling, guilty, <em>something</em> feeling that made him hold onto you without wanting to fuck you. For once, there wasn’t an end goal except to keep holding on. To be some kind of comfort to you, shabby as it may be.</p><p>“From here on,” you murmured, “if we do this—if I give you a chance… it’s going to get dangerous. If I fall in love with you, and you… You better not fucking hurt me. Because this time, it will <em>really</em> hurt, and I won’t forgive you. You understand that?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He held you, and he promised.</p><p>Wet splotches soaked into his shirt, his warm hand resting on your back, holding you close to his chest, and he made a dozen beautiful promises. “I won’t hurt you”—<em>lie</em>—“You don’t have to worry”—<em>lie</em>—“It will be different”—<em>lie</em>—“I want to be different.”</p><p>You lifted your face from his chest then and met his ardent green eyes. He wiped a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.</p><p>Maybe wanting was enough.</p><p>It was a start.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. A Contract</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I surrender,” Bryan whispered as he held you close to his tear-stained shirt on the edge of your bed in your cramped bedroom. Both your eyes were a little red, a little watery.</p><p>You weren’t convinced Bryan Kneef <em>knew</em> how to have the kind of relationship you were looking for—the kind he was asking you for now that he’d turned fifty and didn’t want to die alone. Now that he’d hit rock bottom. His sudden desire for deeper connection didn’t change decades of habit. Any time he felt vulnerable, he raised his sword of anger or lust, or cowered behind a shield of cold indifference.</p><p>But he swore his unconditional surrender.</p><p>All he could offer was to yield. He would move to New York if you would have him. Stay in a hotel until he could find a place. Follow any rules you set. Any. However fast or slow. He knew you were afraid he would abandon you the moment he got bored, and so it was Bryan who suggested a commitment, murmured it into your hair.</p><p>“Are you <em>proposing?</em>” Your eyes widened incredulously the moment the c-word came out of his mouth.</p><p>“I am not suggesting marriage,” he chuckled (even begging, he wasn’t ready for <em>that</em>). “But a relationship is a type of contract—a commitment to stay together. What do you say to twelve months?”</p><p>“A year? We’ve never been on a real first date.”</p><p>“You were with ginger asshole for two,” he scoffed. “I think you can handle <em>one</em> with me.”</p><p>“I don’t know if I can last one <em>month</em> with you,” you joked, but his face fell, and you decided it wasn’t very funny.</p><p>“Six months,” was his clipped counter-offer.</p><p>“And at the end of six months?”</p><p>“We renegotiate. Decide whether to terminate or renew.”</p><p>“Are you sure you can last that long?”</p><p>He pulled you onto his lap, his hand under your thigh and the other supporting your lower back.</p><p>“I can last as long as you want, kitten,” he insinuated, a hungry smirk spreading over his lips. You loved how pink they stood out from his dark beard, and you couldn’t help but dip down and capture them.</p><p>He growled into your mouth, tongue probing for entry, still tasting unpleasantly of last night’s binge-drinking. His hands began to explore your body. One slipped under your sweater, and a ray of sparks sizzled under your bare skin where his fingers grazed it. Under your thigh, his bulge hardened and twitched as his teeth clicked against yours, his mouth growing more demanding—and it would have been so easy to give in to the deepening passion and let him fuck you senseless.</p><p>But that was how things <em>used</em> to be.</p><p>“We’re not having sex right now,” you said. “So don’t even think about it.”</p><p>He gave a petulant, whining groan and opened his mouth to protest.</p><p>“You fucked a random guy in a bar bathroom yesterday,” you cut him off, hand to his chest.</p><p>“We used protection.”</p><p>“You fucked. A stranger. In a bar bathroom. We are not having any kind of sex until you get tested.”</p><p>“Come on, isn’t that a little—”</p><p>“In a <em>bathroom!</em>”</p><p>“Fine,” he grumbled.</p><p>A visit to Planned Parenthood was the first of many terms to be negotiated into your “contract.” Boundaries, safe words—things you’d never explicitly discussed before and should have. But the first step, you explained, when you adopt a stray, is to take it to the vet and make sure it’s had all its shots.</p><p>“And then if the first STI screening comes back negative, we’re waiting the three-week window and getting tested again. And when <em>that’s</em> negative, then you can fuck me.”</p><p>“Three fucking weeks?”</p><p>“Think of it as penance.”</p><p>He huffed, and he grumbled, and he almost called you a bitch, but thought better of it. “This doesn’t count toward the six months.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“Nope,” he said, pulling you back onto his lap. “Six months starts when I can come inside you. Mark you as mine.”</p><p>He made to kiss you, but you pushed him back onto the mattress. He hummed with surprise as you straddled and sat on his chest.</p><p>“I think you’re mistaken, Bry”—you pinned his shoulders down, leaning above his face—“<em>You</em> are <em>mine.</em>”</p><p>His ribs expanded and vibrated with a low groan of arousal beneath your thighs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You must be kidding,” Bryan raised an eyebrow at the device. “You expect me to wear this <em>all the time?</em> Even when I go out?”</p><p>“Especially when you go out. Do you expect me to trust you without it? We have to make sure you stay a good boy.”</p><p>The small boutique (your first stop after taking Bryan to a clinic to pee in a cup) was inconspicuous from the outside. Inside, it was decorated sinfully with black velvet drapes, deep red walls, and displays of riding crops, ropes, and leather. A surprisingly normal-looking employee (except for the collar around his neck) was helping with your custom order—one of the few places you could get one done in-house, same-day if they weren’t too busy.</p><p>The chastity cage you selected for Bryan was a series of polished silver rings connected by a spine that curved perfectly to contour his flaccid cock and ensure it couldn’t become erect. At the top was a little padlock that only you had the key to. It was the insurance you needed that Bryan wouldn’t cheat his way through his three weeks of penance, especially while he was back in Chicago without supervision.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>He kissed your fingers and said it in such a dark, gravelly tone, his intense green eyes locked on yours, that it seemed more like <em>he</em> was the dominant one in this situation. Despite the pathetic state in which he’d shown up on your doorstep, he emanated masculine strength. He was not the sort of man you could force to do something if he didn’t choose to.</p><p>And he chose to give you his obedience.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Cool light streamed in through the gauzy curtains, pure enough white that it must have been snowing again. The overzealous radiator rattled and hissed.</p><p>Your apartment was always just a little bit too hot in the winter, but waking up next to the comfortable warmth of Bryan’s breathing was enough reason to stay under the covers. It was the first time in a long time you’d woken with a man in your bed that wasn’t a regret. It was also the first time you’d slept beside Bryan without fucking him.</p><p>Your hand trailed over the soft gray hair of his broad chest. You’d never been able to take the time to explore his body with lazy, intimate gestures before, always waiting for the dance to start—for him to pretend it meant nothing and make a big show of leaving while you made a big show of not caring that he left. It would have been stupid to care, and you weren’t stupid. Yet here you were.</p><p>He <em>was</em> thinner than you remembered, though his muscles were more cut. He must have passed the solitary months in prison working out, like in the movies.</p><p>It felt different waking up next to Bryan, knowing he wasn’t waiting to walk away. He wasn’t pretending this didn’t mean anything.</p><p>It was nice.</p><p>At least you hoped he’d remember his commitment this morning. Part of you expected his green eyes to open and for him to jerk away and call a cab. But then, the cock cage was still there, the key still yours, a steadying reminder of his surrender.</p><p>It was the reason you were able to share a bed just cuddling and talking. The cage prevented him from grinding against you and escalating things, and kept you from giving in to temptation as much as it did him.</p><p>His eyes opened a few minutes later, frowning and groaning. But his sour expression wasn’t your fault.</p><p>“Shit. How does morning wood work in this thing?” he grumbled, hands groping in his boxers.</p><p>“Is it painful?”</p><p>“Just uncomfortable. The guy said this would happen. Ah, fuck,” he spat. “This is bullshit.”</p><p>“You remember our safe word?” you asked. All he had to do was say it. Any time it was too much, if there was pain or swelling, or if he wanted to stop playing, he knew all he had to do was say it.</p><p>“Yeah. What about it?” he leveled an even gaze at you.</p><p>“Then quit complaining,” you growled. “You deserve to have your filthy dick locked up, and you know it. Say it.”</p><p>He swallowed, but there was a peculiar light in his eyes. “I deserve it. It’s my own fault I have to wear this.”</p><p>“And why is that?”</p><p>“Because I’m a piece of shit who can’t control himself.”</p><p>“That’s right,” you scolded, but the corner of your lips began to pull into a smirk. “Now, if you want to help <em>me</em> get off, that’s another story…”</p><p>He grabbed your legs hungrily as you wriggled from under the sheets, pushing your knees apart. “It’s the least I can do, ma’am…”</p><p>You grinned and pulled him down into a kiss. His lips were soft and full, more pleading than demanding, and the taste of him was perfection: all the blood and booze finally faded from his mouth.</p><p>You only let him use your toys—he hadn’t earned the pleasure of touching you yet. But his vast sexual experience had its uses. Even restricted to a vibrator, he knew every trick, every inch of your body, and the shaking orgasm that rocked through you was the perfect gift on Christmas morning.</p><p>Christmas. That reminded you, you were supposed to be spending the afternoon with your parents for dinner. You mentioned it casually before getting in the shower.</p><p>Poor, eager Bryan, still adjusting to the new weight in his pants, assumed he would be going with you. The look on his face when you handed him a coffee and told him “no” was devastating… Then frightening. He set the mug down hard enough that bitter drops scattered out over the table. His expression never stayed depressed for long before sharpening into an angry snarl—the one emotion, aside from horny, that he was good at expressing.</p><p>“This is one of the reasons you can’t come,” you tutted, crossing your arms as he tried to intimidate you with the flash of his eyes and growl in his throat. “You’re like bringing a live hand grenade to dinner. I remember the bombshells you dropped with your own family—how are you going to act in front of mine?”</p><p>His shoulders sank. His eyes darted away guiltily across your kitchen floor.</p><p>You cupped his face, fingers brushing through his beard and playing with the whitest hairs above his ear. He covered your hand with his own, and, closing his eyes, nuzzled into your palm. This was the side of him you wanted to see, the affectionate side, when he put posturing away and gave in to what he really needed.</p><p>“I can be good,” he promised. His lips pressed warm and wet against your palm, working up to kiss your fingers.</p><p>“Bryan…” You backed up a few paces and hopped onto the kitchen counter, wrapping your legs around his waist. The hard metal of the cage excited the parting of your thighs where it rubbed, but kept him from feeling anything or getting the wrong idea as an uncaged Bryan certainly would. “I don’t want you to be alone on Christmas, but it’s not like I planned for you to show up. It’s too new. And my dad <em>will</em> Google you, and there are too many questions I don’t want to have to answer right now.”</p><p>“Fine,” he said. “Holidays are pointless anyway. There’s nothing special about today. Just another square on the calendar.”</p><p>You crossed your ankles together and pulled him closer in. From the hitch in his breath and a slight whine, you figured his cock was starting to feel restricted. His tongue darted subconsciously over his lower lip as he looked down at yours.</p><p>“Tell me a feeling,” you whispered.</p><p>He blinked.</p><p>“An emotion. Just one thing you’re feeling, right now.”</p><p>“Annoyed. Frustrated.” His hips rocked between your legs, the hard metal grinding on your clothed clit. You bit your lip to hold in a moan, and tsk-tsked instead.</p><p>“No. It can’t be anger. You can tell me all day about how pissed off you are. It has to be something in the general categories of: sad, grateful, scared… Something hard for you to say.”</p><p>He laughed. Grumbled. Rolled his eyes. Then you said it was part of his penance. A new condition of the six-month contract—every day, he must admit to one feeling.</p><p>Then he squirmed. His face heated. He laughed, but without the sharp bite to it.</p><p>He wasn’t used to opening up, which was, incidentally, a large part of why all of his previous relationships had failed. Either he preemptively pushed them away before he could get attached, or they left when they saw how shallow he was. But there were depths to him. They were just under guard. And you were going to dig them out whether he liked it or not.</p><p>
  <em>“Shame.”</em>
</p><p>The first feeling, which dragged its claws along the walls of his throat before it could be choked out, was shame.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan’s lower abdomen was shaking beneath your hands, his moans wild and frantic as he lapped into your cunt, filling the bedroom with wet squelching sounds. It was the first time out of his cage for play in a month.</p><p>His test results came back positive for chlamydia, which certainly was not from his little bathroom tryst (it wouldn’t have shown up on a test so soon after infection). You wondered how long he’d been asymptomatic, and exactly how many phone calls he had to make. Despite all your recent casual hookups, your results came back clean—a fact you flaunted, calling Bryan an impulsive, careless idiot. He finished up a course of antibiotics while he was away in Chicago getting his affairs in order, and the second screening three weeks later came back clean.</p><p>Today, you decided he’d earned a reward.</p><p>With his arms spread and cuffed to the corner posts, Bryan took up most of the full bed in your tiny room, and he was such a pretty picture: squirming and eager, but completely helpless. You only unlocked his cock when he was chained up. Rules were important.</p><p>Getting the cage off was difficult—just the promise of being unlocked had him so keyed up and sensitive that his cock was swollen and ballooning out through the metal rings before you ever touched him. With lube and patience, he finally sprang free, swelling to his fullness within seconds. Even you had to gasp, though you were trying to play cool, at the full size of his proud erection standing up against gravity. It had been over two years since you’d seen it in person, and part of you thought it was memory aggrandizing how massive he truly was—but if anything, nostalgia had downplayed his intimidating largeness. How did you ever fit that thing inside you?!</p><p>He wailed out as you gave it a few strokes, pulling the foreskin back from the red, nearly purple, throbbing head. His feet—unchained—planted on the mattress so he could pump his hips up unto your hand.</p><p>“Please. Please let me fuck you—oh god… <em>fuck,</em> I’m already close. Shit.”</p><p>His hips stopped working as he realized how much three weeks of chastity had affected him. He didn’t want an unsatisfying quick orgasm in your hand—he wanted to bury his seed deep inside you while you fluttered around his shaft, and he could hear you moan out his name.</p><p>“F-fuck, ah—” he gasped and closed his eyes to force his breathing back under control.</p><p>“A little sensitive, are we?” You pointed your tongue and licked the underside of his head—a quick lap at the most sensitive spot, the frenulum.</p><p>“Fuck… fuck you.”</p><p>“You know, it’s been a long time for me, too,” you pouted with a coy little smirk, knowing full well how many times he’d watched you get yourself off, not allowed to touch you. Just you and your toys.</p><p>He groaned, a desperate strained noise through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Don’t worry, my naughty boy. I have an idea for you.” You straddled his chest with your ass facing him, lifted your hips, and backed up so your pussy was hovering over his lips, and you still had full access to his cock. Hot breath fanned over your wet folds. “If you make me cum first, I’ll let you finish inside me.”</p><p>“Fuck. Yes. Yes,” Bryan rasped, already lifting his head off the pillow before you even lowered yourself to his face, and buried his tongue inside you.</p><p>You gasped as he went to work—it had been so long since you felt that skilled tongue between your thighs, the light scrape of his beard—you had almost forgotten how good it felt. How talented he was. No one else you’d fucked in the intervening years had even come close, and you just wanted to savor it and cum all over his beautiful fucking face. It almost made you forget the game you were playing.</p><p>Grasping his cock (you needed both hands to circle it fully), you began jerking him off, and right away, you knew he wouldn’t last. A muffled moan vibrated through your cunt, and his belly convulsed under you. His legs shifted and writhed.</p><p>“Does that feel good?” you teased, and it was met with a growl of frustration that dissolved into whimpering as you pulsed your fingers quickly just under the base of his cockhead.</p><p>His lips left your clit. “Focus on my tongue, kitten. Let me please you,” he purred low, sensual, and commanding, bringing out his dominant voice, though it was strained by his effort not to cum.</p><p>But he wasn’t in charge now.</p><p>Instead, you increased speed, reveling in the choked sputtering it earned, the tensing of all his muscles as he tried to hold on. Your own pleasure was building like a fire. He started begging again, promising to be good. You leaned back, nearly smothering him with your weight and letting him fuck you deeper with his tongue.</p><p>“Oh god, Bryan,” you moaned, closing your eyes and getting lost in the pleasure of his desperation. Chains rattled against the bed frame as his hands strained to touch you—to pull you down harder on top of him. To pump his fingers inside you. “Fuck,” your thighs tightened at the thought. You stroked his cock idly, thoughtlessly as his warm, wet mouth sucked hard on your clit, tongue swirling faster with precision.</p><p>“Oh… oh… Bry—Bryan!” You went rigid, and his hips kicked—his cock so heavy and hot in your hand. Your voice shook and became unintelligible as you melted, waves of twitching convulsions quivering through your whole body—and suddenly the pleasure of his tongue was too much, and you collapsed forward, gasping and screaming his name.</p><p>When your eyes opened, you noticed your hand, still wrapped around Bryan’s red cock, was covered in white, sticky release. Three weeks’ worth of cum running between your fingers and dribbling down the side of his shaft.</p><p><em>“Fffu-uck!”</em> he sobbed.</p><p>You took a moment to catch your breath, then swung your leg over Bryan’s chest, dismounting, and gave him a sweet smile. “Too bad. Maybe next time, you’ll make it.”</p><p>His green eyes were piercing like daggers. You pressed a chaste kiss to his scowl, the smell of your arousal strong in his beard. You washed your hands first before cleaning him up, and patiently waited for his cock to return to his pre-arousal size. When the cuffs finally came off his wrists, he was already locked in his cage again.</p><p>A month into the contract, it was getting easier for Bryan to pinpoint emotions and admit them.</p><p>Today, he was in awe, and grateful that you were with him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>By Valentine’s Day, you were spending most of your nights at Bryan’s new condo. It irked you that someone could “lose everything” and still have enough money for a Manhattan penthouse, but Bryan would only give a devilish smile and wink.</p><p>“I guess it’s hypocritical to rant about injustice when I’m enjoying it,” your indignant speech fizzled out as you rode Bryan’s private elevator to the top.</p><p>In answer, Bryan gave a sharp smack to your ass, which was covered with the silky fabric of a form-fitting gown of his choosing. Disgraced though he may have been, he liked the woman on his arm to look the part of high society when he brought you out to a swank dinner reservation, and he insisted on spoiling you.</p><p>Around your neck, a silver chain with a key. A reminder of who was in charge.</p><p>New York State did not allow disbarred attorneys to work in law-related fields, so for the past month, Bryan had been throwing all of his drive into recreational pursuits. When he wasn’t at the gym, he was honing his kitchen skills with lessons from a professional chef. When he wasn’t doing that, he was networking at a wine tasting or hosting a dinner party, building back up contacts that would eventually lead to… something. You insisted any employment be above-board—no more conspiracy and fraud—which, to be honest, limited his options.</p><p>Not that there was a dire need to launch a new career—so long as didn’t blow all his principal on a yacht, he was making double your annual salary just sitting on investments (more when he sold stock options). He was just bored.</p><p>His interest in cooking came as a surprise, but you were happy to see him putting weight back on because of it, his middle regaining some of the softness it used to have. And you were happy to let him feed you.</p><p>As soon as the elevator doors opened into his apartment—a modern monstrosity that was all dark leather and steel except for the few upbeat touches you influenced—he was on you. Swooping you into a dip in his strong arms, attacking your neck with beard burns and teeth. His hand trailing lower…</p><p>The reverberation of your moan was lost in his demanding kiss, his lips crashing against yours in an onslaught of tongue and teeth, until you pulled away, gasping for oxygen. His eyes were dark with intention as he gazed back at you and your bruised lips.</p><p>Those lips gathered into a slow, cruel smile as you gathered your composure. “Seems like you’re <em>expecting</em> something tonight.”</p><p>His nostrils flared as he drew a hard breath, chest expanding. “It’s fucking Valentine’s Day,” he said. Petulant. Impatient.</p><p>“Try that tone again.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” he bowed his head, chastised, and when his eyes met yours again, it was with his needy, submissive side. “Please? It’s been two months.”</p><p>Technically, it had been fifty-three days since Bryan Kneef had fucked. The last time was being railed by a twink in a bar when he was sad and lashing out to make you jealous because he confused his own self-loathing for something he could blame on you. Otherwise, he only came in your hand, if you let him cum at all and didn’t just edge him to insanity.</p><p>While you pretended to think about his request, he volunteered, “May I tell you about a feeling?”</p><p>“Oh? Let’s hear it.”</p><p>“I regret… missing so much time. That I never had any meaningful relationships. If I had tried, I would know what I’m doing by now. The last two years could have been different if I hadn’t treated you like something replaceable.”</p><p>His brow was knit so tightly you took his face in your hands and tried to massage out the tension wrinkles with your thumbs. “Hey, it’s OK. If you got married in your thirties, then I wouldn’t get to have you now. It’s selfish, but I’m glad you waited for me.”</p><p>He leaned forward and captured your lips again, gently this time, his hand moving softly up your back, pulling you into a kiss that was warm and longing. More than sex, it was the need to be close to you. To be connected. The daily-emotion challenge was so effective at heightening that feeling of closeness, he no longer resisted it. He was even eager to tell you things that had been weighing on his mind in solitude.</p><p>With his forehead against yours, he broke the kiss and gave a crooked smirk. “Nah. If I was married, I’d dump them for you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Bryan watched you circle the bed as you fastened one restraint to his wrist, then the other, spreading them apart as if he were being crucified. Helpless. Naked, except for the metal glittering around his cock, and the dark grey hair trailing down toward it from his navel.</p><p>“Do you want me to fuck you tonight, Bryan?”</p><p>He whimpered, soft and needy. Being restrained brought out a side in him he didn’t know about until you—a Bryan who knew his place.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am. Please.”</p><p>“Do you really think you <em>deserve</em> to fuck me?”</p><p>You sneered down at him, powerful. Sharp in the evening dress he picked to draw jealous stares from across the restaurant. Every bit as flawless as it was during your date, only now your panties were gone.</p><p>Pained eyes looked up at you from under his thick brows as he answered honestly, “No.”</p><p>You hummed and ghosted your fingers up his leg, first stopping at the knee, which jerked ticklishly. Then slowly, in detoured circles, up the inside of his thigh. His breath caught in his throat, in and out in erratic puffs. He watched you, eyes glued to your every movement as you climbed onto the bed and shoved your knee between his legs to spread them.</p><p>“Do you think you deserve this pussy?” you whispered. Hitching up the skirt, you lowered yourself down and bit back a groan as your folds parted over his thigh. Rocking your hips, you ground your wetness against him, just a few inches from where he coveted it.</p><p>“No, ma’am.”</p><p>“Then it’s a good thing it’s not up to you to decide what you deserve, isn’t it?” You looked down at him with a playful gleam and gave his beard three little scratches like he was a favored pet.</p><p>“Thank you, thank you,” he chanted as you took the key from your neck and unlocked his chastity cage.</p><p>Even in his life as a ruthless litigator, Bryan was never above begging. Being born into privilege only went so far when <em>everyone</em> had gone to Harvard or Yale, and he was the new guy at the firm. Nobody automatically soared to the top. To make partner, you’ve got to fight, cheat, and brown-nose your way into the inner circle.</p><p>But you were the first lover Bryan wanted enough to beg for. And the first time you demanded he get on his knees for you, it ignited a fire in him he’d never felt before.</p><p>And now you were sinking down on his throbbing cock, slowly, so painfully slowly, his bound hands uselessly clenching into fists—and helplessness only made the throbbing more urgent. His hips moved as your warm cunt parted around him, but you were quick to correct his presumption, lifting off of him, leaving nothing but the slickness of your moisture on his impatient head.</p><p>“No—please! Don’t stop,” his whine was throaty and desperate at the loss of contact.</p><p>“You don’t move until I tell you. Understood? You wait.”</p><p>“Y-yes ma’am. I understand.” His face was red, near to bursting with anticipation. “Fuck, I want you so bad. You have no idea…”</p><p>You had <em>some</em> idea. It had been just as long since you’d had the pleasure of Bryan Kneef’s massive cock stuffing you to the brim, stretching you to your limits. All the while you’d been torturing him, you were also tormenting yourself. But it was worth the wait, just to see Bryan wait. To feel the way he twitched beneath you, his every muscle on a hair-trigger ready to fire now that you finally granted him mercy. Every part of him was completely focused on you. Devoted. Yours.</p><p>“Good boy,” you cooed, sliding down over his cock again, pulling the skirt of your dress up so he could see himself disappearing inside of you. “That’s a good boy…”</p><p>You had to bite your lip to maintain your composure. To not start whimpering as loudly as he was with every inch you took. Fuck, he was big. Long and thick, and you could feel every vein, every precious curve as you enveloped him. It was slow torture for Bryan, but it was more than another teasing game for you—it was a necessity. If you took him all at once, he would rip you open.</p><p>Finally, you were seated, your thighs resting on his pelvis. Impaled on his fullness.</p><p>You breathed. Let yourself relax around him, muscles getting used to his overwhelming girth. He breathed. Trying not to cum just from the feeling of being sunk into your depths.</p><p>“You’re so tight,” he whispered, so thick with lust you weren’t sure how he managed to form words at all.</p><p>You smiled at the compliment, but more at the restraint he was showing. You could feel his cock twitching against your walls reflexively. Every muscle beneath you hard as a rock.</p><p>“OK. That’s good. Now fuck me, Bryan. Be as loud as you want.”</p><p>With your open invitation, he let out a relieved hiss—but before he started moving, he gave a respectful, “Thank you, ma’am.”</p><p>Then his feet planted on the mattress, and he fucked into you so hard he nearly bucked you off. You wailed out as he hit you deep—that secret spot only he could reach—and leaned forward to brace your hands on his chest for balance.</p><p>His hips were going wild, rutting up into you, and he vocalized with every breath—every sharp inhale a gasp, every shuddering exhale a moan. Every sensation was too intense to contain. The pleasure building up in him was urgent—it had been so long. So many days denied, unable to even touch himself. His balls felt heavy with it. And now he was inside your perfect, tight heat, velvet walls surrounding him, pressing in on all sides to urge him toward his long-deprived release.</p><p>“That cock is so good,” you moaned. You’d given up on anything besides just trying to hold on as he bucked beneath you, like sitting on a jackhammer. Every powerful thrust knocked the air from your lungs as it hit the edge of pleasure and pain in that deep, deep spot.</p><p><em>“Ss-ssso…”</em> Bryan tried to form words, but they dissolved into a broken hiss.</p><p>“Who does that cock belong to?”</p><p>His eyes snapped into focus, their envious green burning into your face. “You.”</p><p>You started moving your hips, riding him in time with his thrusts, your fingers curling into the neatly trimmed hairs of his chest. Each roll of your hips brought exhilarating friction to your clit, and your whole body—every nerve ending—began to sizzle.</p><p>“That’s right,” you urged, “I want you to say it.”</p><p>“This… this cock is yours. I belong to you,” he choked out with difficulty. It was almost impossible not to just cum right now.</p><p><em>“Mine,”</em> you growled possessively, grinding your hips even harder into him, that delicious heat burning hotter with his submission. You could sense his urgency and the way he was trying to fight it, delay it by slowing down—but you didn’t want restraint. “I want to feel you cum for this pussy. Do you want to cum inside me?”</p><p>He let out a high, strangled whimper before gasping out, “Yes!”</p><p>It was so hard to pace himself—he didn’t want to pace himself. He wanted to take you, take every inch you allowed, because he needed it. He didn’t know when he might get another chance. It didn’t even matter if he didn’t last long—the past month had been one long foreplay. And so he gave in to what his body was screaming for, what your body, writhing on top of him, clenching around him, was screaming for.</p><p>“Fuck—ah! My cock is yours, ma’am,” he moaned as his hips lost all control, “Th-this pussy. This pussy owns me. Oh, fuck—”</p><p>“That’s… that’s right. <em>Nngh!</em> I want to hear my name when you cum for me!”</p><p>With one last stuttering stroke, he exploded inside you, filling you with hot release that seemed to keep coming and coming until you were bursting with him and his seed. The heat of it dripping out of you around his cock, the sound of him screaming out your name until his voice went hoarse made you snap right behind him—lights flickering behind your eyes as your nerves ignited into a blaze so powerful the world disappeared. You didn’t even hear yourself chanting, “Bryan… Bryan… oh, god, Bryan...” until you began to come out of it. Until your shaking body went limp and rolled off of him, reached for one of the straps to free his arm, and then cuddled right back against him, burying your head in the sweat of his hot skin. He was trembling, or you were, or both. It didn’t matter. It would take a minute, as you held him, comforted by his solid presence, for both of you to recover.</p><p>Then you would finish cleaning off his cock, lock it back up, and unstrap his other arm.</p><p>Maybe you would shower together a little later, you thought. Let him take off the cage for a deep cleaning before falling into bed to sleep. Or maybe the shower could wait until tomorrow. You were already so comfortable, melting physically and mentally in Bryan’s bed, and he was nuzzling into your hair, still calm and affectionate and showing no signs of wanting to get up. So you burrowed into the crook of his neck and kissed throat, stroking your fingers up and down his side. The salty taste of his skin was on your lips as you murmured, “Keep being good for me.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>For six months, Bryan admitted one thing each day. One emotion. Often more as he got used to opening up and found that he didn’t hate it.</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll never have a golden anniversary. I’m afraid it’s too late. I started too late.”</em>
</p><p>It was like you knew that was the piece missing from all his previous relationships. Maybe it was obvious to everyone but him, because the more he practiced, the more it felt natural—the more you opened up to him in return. The more he talked about his feelings, the less he was tempted to blow up in anger and do something he would later regret—usually, finding himself in bed with someone he shouldn’t have.</p><p>The chastity cage helped with that impulse, too.</p><p>
  <em>“I worry you’re going to leave me. Everyone leaves when they see who I am.”</em>
</p><p>Bryan knew he was a fucking asshole. He deserved to be put in his place. Every time you denied him—not letting him orgasm for weeks on end. Finally letting him, only to take your hand away so he could watch helplessly as the sensation faded and his cum dripped out in disappointing spurts instead of a body-shaking climax—he knew it was what he deserved.</p><p>The bedroom was the one place his ego was kept in check.</p><p>For most people, a felony conviction means a life of unfulfilled dreams. Struggling to find employment or a place to live. But the world has different rules for the wealthy, and within six months, Bryan Kneef was a political consultant, helping an ambitious candidate navigate the sordid world of backroom deals and quid pro quos while planning their campaign strategy. Mainly on how to <em>avoid</em> breaking the law. He only took the job because he knew you would love their feel-good, pro-environment platform.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s this… warm feeling. I think it’s happiness, but it aches, too.”</em>
</p><p>He stayed on his best behavior. He knew what he had to lose and that he was on his last chance. You forgave him for so many things before you were technically together, because it didn’t matter. You weren’t together. You didn’t want to be, because you knew he would hurt you. And if he hurt you now that you’d decided to give him your trust, that would be the end of it. It wouldn’t be the kind of wound you could laugh off like so many times before.</p><p>And so he stayed good. But you still didn’t trust him. At the back of your mind, you always knew what kind of person Bryan was.</p><p>The first time you started to fall for him in earnest was in March. The mix of winter frost and spring pollen gave you a horrible cold, and you had to call out of work for several days. Instead of retreating to his germ-free condo where he would be safe, Bryan stayed with you every day, feeding you homemade soup, making sure you were drinking enough water, and running to the drugstore for you.</p><p>His bedside manner was atrocious, and he wouldn’t stop saying, “you look like crap,” but he took care of you. Even when your nose was crusty and running and all you could do was groan about your aching muscles. You didn’t know he had that in him.</p><p>
  <em>“What? I worry about you. Is it weird that I want to help?”</em>
</p><p>When Bryan wasn’t on his best behavior, you had all kinds of punishments to bring him in line. Riding his face without letting him touch you or himself, hands bound. Edging him to the brink and never letting him cum. Sucking dark purple bruises into his skin until his body was marked as your territory.</p><p>Sometimes at dinner, you distinctly noted Bryan flirting with a waiter <em>just</em> to get punished.</p><p>You experimented. Bryan had experience with many things and told you what he liked. Sometimes you would try it, and sometimes you surprised even him, like the day you came home with a strap-on and a big purple dildo. Being pegged, gagged, blindfolded, tied up, and denied—it all made him feel better somehow. His cock more sensitive, his desire heightened. His self-loathing diffused. He knew he deserved the torture, and it made earning a reward all the sweeter.</p><p>
  <em>“It’s a relief to be put in my place. But only by you. You’re the only one allowed to.”</em>
</p><p>And some days, you let him off his leash entirely.</p><p>“It’s fun to let you come out and play, isn’t that right, my good boy?” you would say as you untied his hands, eyeing the throbbing erection threatening to take you.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am. Only to please you.”</p><p>“You please me so well… I think I’d like to let you fuck me like the old days… Tie me up. Hold me down. Give it to me hard.”</p><p>And he would growl deep in his chest, eyes darkening, “As you command.” And you knew as soon as the restraints were off, he would be on you, parting your legs, fingers bruising your hips, filling you and using you, and the only thing that would stop him was the safe word.</p><p>And afterward, he would cuddle you, panting, and ask, “Did you like that, ma’am? Did I please you?” and you would tell him what a good boy he was for you, smiling as you moaned that you would be sore for days.</p><p>
  <em>“You’re my best friend, and I’m not bored of you.”</em>
</p><p>June 24th could have come and gone like any other day as far as you were concerned, but Bryan was keenly aware of the end date of your six-month contract.</p><p>He told you to call out of work, and brought you out to Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, smiling in wry amusement at the predictable way you got excited to capture a wood duck or an osprey nest in your binoculars. You even forgot to hold his hand as you flitted about the trails, only returning to his side to grab his arm and point into a field of marshy reeds at <em>something</em> that was tremendously rare (apparently) and as invisible as it was uninteresting to him.</p><p>But your smile made even the mosquitoes worth it.</p><p>Bryan waited until you hiked out to a quiet point surrounded by birds and the smell of seawater, where you could see the city skyline in the hazy distance. Then he stopped, and told you that you were his best friend, and he wasn’t bored of you, and still wanted to fuck you.</p><p>“Is that love?” he asked.</p><p>You gave a curious look that made his heart stand still—thoughtful and searching, scanning his face—then your cheeks rounded, crinkling your eyes. Bryan could have warned you that you were going to get crow’s feet that way—that trophy wives who cared about aging flawlessly only smiled with their mouths, and cautiously at that. But you were too breathtaking to correct. He could live with wrinkles.</p><p>“I’d say it’s getting close,” you replied.</p><p>“Then I love you.”</p><p>He had no words yet for the feeling when he heard you say it back, the spark in his chest, the flesh-rending anguish of joy. He didn’t know if it was normal for getting all that you ever wanted to hurt, but it felt like his skin would boil away from his bones until he kissed you—his arms embracing you, hands spread over your back to pull you to him, while yours twined around the nape of his neck to do the same. And it burned. It burned like an open wound and alcohol and relief all at once.</p><p>Was that what love was?</p><p>Fuck, it was agony. You were right to run away from this, from him, if this was what love felt like. If you left him now, hurt him now, he wouldn’t know how to breathe.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next day, the penthouse was dimmed as you stepped from the elevator. Bryan made a candlelit dinner with expensive champagne, got down on one knee, and proposed.</p><p>Your hands flew to your mouth, and you screamed, jumped up and down on the balls of your feet, hugged him, looked at him with love shining in your eyes, and said, “No.”</p><p>He blinked a few times, working through the dissonance between the smile on your face and the words your mouth made.</p><p>“What do you mean <em>no?</em>”</p><p>“Fuck no, Bryan. It’s only been six months.”</p><p>“We have known each other long—”</p><p>
  <em>“Six months!”</em>
</p><p>He grumbled and glowered and wanted very badly to sternly cross his arms, but you were still latched onto his chest in a hug. “I’m getting mixed messages.”</p><p>You pulled back slightly to explain, though not quite letting go of him. “We’re still in that fresh stage of excitement. Infatuation. Obsession. And marriage is a big commitment.”</p><p>“You don’t think I can handle it?”</p><p>“I don’t know if <em>I</em> can handle it,” you laughed. “Marriage will be new for me, too! In my experience, cracks start to show after a year, when the infatuation starts to wear off. Give it six more months.”</p><p>Bryan considered this. “And if walk away right now because you’re such a bitch?”</p><p>“Fuck you, asshole,” you slapped his chest.</p><p>A wicked grin reached his eyes, then your feet left the ground as he hefted you into his arms in a bridal-carry and carried you screaming and giggling to the bedroom.</p><p>Six months later, you said yes.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Epilogue</h2></a>
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    <p>You had never meant the chastity cage to be permanent. It was just a cruel little supplement to your insufficient trust in his insufficient self-control that you both ended up enjoying. He liked it so much he wore it for months at a time, with only a few off-weeks in between for rest.</p><p>But now that you’d agreed to marry him, you found you actually trusted Bryan Kneef. He decided he wanted to change, and for the past year, he proved that he could.</p><p>“You’ve been so good,” you broached it to him. “I guess we don’t need this anymore. If you want to take it off…”</p><p>“No! Please, ma’am,” he pleaded, voice husky. “Don’t give me the chance to fuck up.” Then a low, sultry tone cut through the panic, “I like the reminder of who I belong to.” He caressed your face reverently, a light smirk playing on his lips as he watched his large fingers trail your delicate skin. “I need you. I want you to be my keyholder.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was awkward returning to Chicago for Christmas as Bryan’s fiancée, mainly because, when his mother answered the door and exclaimed, <em>“Sydney?!”</em> you realized Bryan hadn’t explained the situation to anyone in advance.</p><p>“N-not exactly,” you said, a stiff smile plastered on your face as you watched Bryan reveling in the chaos. You would have to punish him for this later (though you suspected that was what he was hoping for).</p><p>Martha’s surprised eyes narrowed at her son, and she slapped his arm, demanding, “What have you done?”</p><p>And so the truth finally came out, and no one in the Kneef family was terribly surprised. It fell so far short of the disappointment of Bryan being a convicted felon that it barely registered. What they couldn’t believe was that Bryan was engaged, and you weren’t a Russian mail-order bride.</p><p>It was here in his parents’ living room three years ago that your casual domesticity while pretending to be his girlfriend awoke something in him. He never had that in a relationship before, and you made him want it. And this year, when you kissed his cheek and ruffled your fingers through his hair, it was real.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Who would have imagined Bryan Kneef with a loving wife? A family? Back in the days when he was STR Laurie’s cutthroat litigator and all-around contemptible human being, it would have sounded absurd.</p><p>Losing everything turned out to be the start of the best years of his life, when he found a new everything.</p><p>He got the old everything back, too, as soon as you would expect for a rich white man who could only fail upward. Seven years after being disbarred for unethical practices related to “Memo 618,” Bryan Kneef petitioned and was allowed to take the New York State bar examination. He went to work at your quaint little non-profit so he could save the planet or whatever, and fuck a hot paralegal.</p><p>To everyone who suffered working with him, he continued to be an arrogant, inconsiderate, ruthless bastard who got results.</p><p>But he had learned one thing: how to admit his feelings to those he cared about.</p><p>To most of the world, nothing had changed, as it happened there were few people Bryan cared about. But to his family—the ones he held close—he was always loving and devoted.</p><p>And sometimes (but only sometimes), he wasn’t an asshole at all.</p>
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